


Unraveling

by Cavatica



Series: Breaking and Entering [7]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Alien POV, Andalite Worldbuilding, Canon Gay Relationship, Childhood Sweethearts, Depression, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Hollywood Marco, M/M, Mertil Backstory, Moving On, Post-War, Recovery, Relationship Advice, canon-typical Andalite bigotry, gay andalites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cavatica/pseuds/Cavatica
Summary: Mertil settles into his life without Gafinilan, but it isn’t an easy adjustment. Marco and, surprisingly, Aximili help him adjust to his new circumstances and help him find his purpose and duty beyond the fighter pilot’s life he had carefully cultivated. Mertil witnesses the end of the war through the trials his friends face. He inadvertently plays his own role in the course of events on the Andalite homeworld.Or: Five times Marco and Aximili brought their problems to Mertil and incidentally won the warChapter 1 is set after Reconcile, Part One; Chapter 2 is set during Reconcile, Part Two; Chapter 3 is set after #49 The Diversion; Chapter 4 is set during #53 The Answer; the rest of the fic is post-war





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 is very, very sad. The rest of the fic is actually pretty uplifting, so I hope that Chapter 1 doesn't bury you in heavy feels.
> 
> content warning: suicide reference

He was viewing it again. The reality was, he’d barely stopped viewing it, in the time he’d been alone.

Aximili had been kind enough to help him build his scoop with as many comforts of home as were possible on Earth. Marco had even provided him with a television, which Aximili had set up with cable, including the premium channels. Mertil hadn’t used it after they left. They had probably not envisioned that Mertil would just endlessly loop Gafinilan’s _hirac delest_ , instead of doing something productive or at least distracting. At least Mertil hoped that Aximili and Marco hadn’t pictured this, because he could barely stand knowing how pathetic he was himself. 

But now, after delaying it for three years, Mertil was at last living the isolated life demanded of a _vecol_. He was living the life Gafinilan had never wanted for him; he might as well spend it doing something he would never have wanted. It just wouldn’t do for Mertil to allow himself any amount of dignity. Dignity was for people who had someone to judge them. Dignity was for _vecols_ who cared about what was required of them, and Mertil certainly didn’t.

The small hologram of Gafinilan he held in his hands bid him farewell, then the image blinked off. Mechanically, Mertil sent a thought command to the polymer semisphere, and the hologram restarted. Mertil sighed and held the projection device tightly. The message was about two hours long, and at this point he probably had it memorized. He was almost sure of it, because he replayed it in his mind on the rare occasion he would leave his scoop to feed. But seeing Gafinilan’s form alongside the words was just as important. After all, sometimes his own cacophonous thoughts drowned out Gafinilan’s voice, but he could look at him for days without needing sleep.

Pathetic. 

Mertil’s life had lost all structure. He had abandoned the morning and evening rituals. He had even let his observance of the mourning ritual decline. He didn’t see the point of saying the words and performing the motions when his whole life was a mourning ritual now -- a constant loop of Gafinilan telling him their life story, as if they hadn’t lived it together, two threads entwined into one. What happened to a thread when it frayed and pulled apart, leaving it half as strong? 

Half a life. As a _vecol_ , this was how he was supposed to feel. And yet, he could have lost his tail and every other piece of himself and felt less mutilated. The part of him that had belonged to Gafinilan had been ripped out far less neatly than his tail had been severed. He couldn’t believe he still had two beating hearts, he was so hollow. Losing his tail was laughable compared to losing Gafinilan. His people knew nothing of loss. 

This was the last thing Gafinilan would have wanted.

Mertil commanded the hologram to zoom in. He studied Gafinilan’s face with all four eyes, bringing the hologram close to his face. Gafinilan was strong in the recording -- strong enough for both of them, even until the end. Gafinilan had always been the strong one, the resolute one. Mertil was the clever one, the flexible one. They’d fit together like a puzzle, always compensated where the other was lacking. 

Since they were small, Mertil had talked Gafinilan out of the trouble his stubbornness brought him. In turn, Gafinilan had been the immovable force behind Mertil’s improbable rise in rank despite his morphing allergy. Mertil had dragged Gafinilan behind him, ahead of him, around him, in perfect synchronization until he achieved his dream of them both becoming fighter pilots. Their fighters weaved together so perfectly, they may as well have been of one mind. Mertil-Iscar-Elmand and Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad, partners in flight and life. Mertil had laughed for days the first time Gafinilan had grumpily told him he’d caught a young cadet with holoportait of Mertil on his desk. Mertil’s usual pilot’s swagger became closer to a dance after that. 

Their stars had burned so brightly, their eventual collapse was inescapable. It had just been so painfully literal, so much messier than the blaze of glory on the battlefield Mertil had expected. 

And still Gafinilan had protected Mertil, when duty should have forced him to abandon him. How could Mertil be half a person when his other half was a whole person? Maybe that explained why Mertil felt like nothing now that Gafinilan was gone.

The _hirac delest_ told him their story in Gafinilan’s voice, told him how proud Gafinilan had been, told him that the life they shared had value that transcended duty and honor. Together, Mertil and Gafinilan had been more than Andalites. What was his life now? His duty was to live a life of solitude and contemplation, and he had no honor except in that. With Gafinilan’s strength, they had defied their culture and completed each other. Without him? Mertil was just alone. Broken. Carrying out his inevitable duty at last. Just an Andalite, at the mercy of their slavish but inescapable obsession with honor. 

Mertil shifted so he was on his side. He was already on the ground -- what was the point of being upright? He felt the earth under his side and touching his face and was disgusted that he’d let himself become so weak. At the same time, he found it easy to block out everything besides Gafinilan and the ground. Gafinilan was part of the earth now; this was as close to him as Mertil could be.

Time was meaningless. It could only be measured in repetitions of the _hirac delest_. Mertil laid on his side for another whole cycle, feeling the warmth seep out of his body and into the floor of his scoop. The climate in this Earth location was warmer than the coastal region of homeworld Mertil and Gafinilan were from. But this Earth hemisphere was in the coldest part of its yearly cycle, and the ground was cold enough to lower Mertil’s highly mutable Andalite body temperature. His breathing slowed and so did his hearts and everything fell away but Gafinilan. A dark haze edged the corners of his vision and the hologram seemed even brighter.

He was hardly conscious enough to hear the loud mouth-sounds coming from outside his scoop. 

“Hello? Mertil?”

The sound of his name pierced the fog, and Mertil shifted blearily. His reflexes were slowed by his decreased circulation, however, and Marco was a nosy child.

“Dude. Are you okay?” Mertil’s stalk eyes turned to see Marco perched on the edge of his scoop and peering down into it, his face twisted into what Mertil recognized as human concern.

Mertil sent a mental command to turn off the hologram and twisted his body so he was upright. He rose to his hooves, his legs numb from disuse and low circulation. He did a brief calculation of how long it had been since he’d stood -- eighteen cycles of the _hirac delest_. He felt something, but shame was so familiar, Mertil couldn’t differentiate it from the background noise. Repulsed by the debris in his fur, he used his hand to dust off his side. It was easier and more civilized to brush dirt off oneself with the flat of the tail blade. As usual, Mertil had to make due. He made sure his tail stump was tucked in.

Mertil turned toward Marco, who was still poised at the entrance of his scoop, the downturned corners of his mouth etching lines that weren’t usually there into his cheeks. Mertil thought, not for the first time, that human faces were disturbingly naked. Not just for their lack of fur, but also in how exposed their emotions were. It must be so awkward to live in such an unsubtle way.

‹Hello, Marco,› Mertil said, his thought-speech even. It had been weeks since he’d last spoken anything but a half-hearted ritual; he was surprised at how easily the words came. Since he was morph-incapable, living this way was the only way he could become an animal. He wasn’t there yet, it seemed.

“Hey.” Marco tipped a pot toward him so Mertil could see the plant inside. It was one of those short fleshy Earth plants that was reminiscent of an _ithretha_ , but was obviously much too small for an Andalite child to rest on. Gafinilan would have known its proper Earth name. “I brought you a gift. Ax helped me pick it, so I hope it’s appealing and like, not offensive. It’s low maintenance. I know gardening isn’t your thing.”

‹Thank you. Please join me inside.› Mertil laid Gafinilan’s _hirac delest_ down on his table and watched Marco lower himself to the ground to drop down from the edge of the scoop. He grabbed the plant from the edge of the entrance and brought it to Mertil.

Mertil examined the plant -- it was a very faded, warm green in the center and each plump petal was rimmed in cerise. The whole plant had a fine, powdery finish. Aesthetically, it was very pleasing. Practically, Mertil couldn’t help but resent being given something he needed to take care of. Gafinilan had always been the one to care for any plants the two of them used or received as gifts, even if it was a ceremonial plant that was technically Mertil’s responsibility. Gafinilan had even had a story he liked to use to demonstrate Mertil’s character among friends -- “he’s the type to take his tail blade to a _frilah_ flower.” And that wasn’t humor -- Mertil had executed that plant in cold blood.

“You seem… even more pensive than usual,” Marco commented. “I told Ax we should get you a silk plant instead. He said the implications of that are highly insulting.”

Mertil put the plant down on the table next to the _hirac delest_. ‹Actually, I’ve received many imitation plants from people who know me well enough to insult me. I appreciate the thought -- I am, in fact, careless and temperamental.›

“Uh, is that a joke?” Since their first meeting, Marco seemed to get that direct eye contact was uncomfortable for Andalites, and now his eyes darted back and forth in a way that seemed much more befitting for a species that only had two-forward facing eyes.

‹Yes, I suppose,› Mertil said, waving his hand. ‹Thank you for the gift, and please extend the sentiment to Aximili, if you think he’ll accept it. Are you here for a reason?›

“Oh, you know, I've got the same old insane guerilla gorilla BS going on. I thought I’d come hang out with my alien friend, do something _normal_ for a change,” Marco said in his common flippant tone.

‹I hope you and your friends have fought well,› Mertil said, letting a bitter edge slip into his thought-speak.

“Yeah, it’s going great. We’re gonna have this in the bag in time for me to get a driver’s license,” Marco said, his eyes rising sharply upward and showing an unpleasant amount of the vitreous, veiny white parts. 

‹I don’t know what that means,› Mertil said with gentle disinterest.

“Don’t worry about it; just remember my birthday is in four months, and I’m gonna take you on the ride of your life,” Marco promised, his mouth splitting into a smile that showed too many small, sharp human teeth.

‹I doubt it, and I would not get in a human vehicle with you, even if you were serious,› Mertil said flatly. 

“You were a pilot, right? I bet you’d be better at teaching me to drive than my dad. His insurance premiums are through the roof.”

‹Yes, I am sure the threat of bodily harm is just the thing I need…› Mertil trailed off, realizing however he completed that sentence was going to sound self-pitying. But the sentiment was honestly not a bad idea. Mertil glanced outside with his stalk eyes.

Marco raised one eyebrow and twisted the corners of his mouth down. “Are you doing okay? Like, I know you’re not. I’m not stupid. But… Are you normal not okay or someone-should-be-here not okay?”

‹Technically,› Mertil said, ‹no one should be here. I am living in solitude now.›

“No way, you’re not,” Marco objected. “I’ll come here everyday, if you think that.”

‹Don’t threaten me,› Mertil warned. Marco’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‹That was an attempt at humor.›

Marco put a hand on his chest. “God. Okay, you have to work on that. You still have that whole ‘military comportment’ or whatever, dude.”

‹Hah, that’s surprising,› Mertil said bitterly. 

“Ax made it out like you were a big shot. He knew your name and your record, and let me tell you, Ax is not reliable at knowing Useful Alien Facts. He apparently slept through every class.” Marco waved his hand in front of his face like he was fanning away an insect. “Point being, you must have been Someone. That doesn’t just go away.”

‹Let me assure you, it does. It can go away very suddenly. And also very slowly,› Mertil said darkly.

“You’re still you. You’ve lost a lot, but you’re still alive. That counts for something, doesn’t it?” Marco asked the question sincerely, like he was asking for a real answer. Maybe for himself as well.

‹I can only speak for myself,› Mertil answered. ‹I have no memories of a time without Gafinilan. His family lived in the scoop closest to mine, and we were born in the same spring. I have never been alone. I planned the same life for both of us. I don’t know who I am without him.›

Marco took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Would it help to keep talking about it? I know Andalites don’t like to share. And I may not seem like the best audience. But I’m here and I’m listening.”

‹I don’t know if it would help,› Mertil said truthfully. ‹Nothing eases this horrible emptiness.›

“Yeah,” Marco sighed. “Yeah, I know. Obviously, I don’t know. But… when I thought my mom died, it felt like I was hollowed out and thrown into a hole.”

‹Did finding out she’s not dead help?› Mertil asked.

“No,” Marco said immediately. “It made it worse.”

‹Yes. The feeling that you should be able to save them is… crippling.› Mertil shook his head at the word. ‹He could have chosen to live. He could have stayed with me as a human. Do you know how it feels to not be enough? To wonder if I was whole, would he have saved himself?›

“I’m positive he didn’t care about your tail. I can’t analyze his motivations any further than that. But there’s no scenario that you could have changed it. I guess he was just… stubborn.”

‹Yes.› Mertil turned his main eyes to the world outside the scoop. One stalk eye focused on Marco, the other on Gafinilan’s _hirac delest_. ‹Yes, he always was.› 

Mertil felt the sudden need to leave, to be free of this open air prison. ‹Please come with me,› he beckoned to Marco. 

Mertil sprang toward the exit, bouncing up and out of the scoop in an almost effortless arc. Mertil had almost forgotten what his body could do, he’d become so trapped by its incompleteness. He’d let himself lie like a corpse on the floor. Mertil broke into a gallop off into the forest. He needed to feel his hooves on the grass, his pulses racing, the wind in his fur. 

Mertil wasn’t a corpse. Earth wasn’t a prison. There was a prison inside him, but it was an Andalite prison. He wasn’t on the homeworld.

He ran. 

His hooves picked up the nutrients from the grass, and each stomp renewed his disused muscles. He ascended a rough path up the mountain but had no trouble navigating the terrain. His natural endurance meant he could run for hours, and his warrior’s training meant his body was robust and nimble. Mertil had had a lot to prove at the Academy. His inability to morph had forced him to work twice as hard at his other skills. He’d never lost a race or a tail fight. He’d specialized in diplomacy and poetry and harmonic physics. He was the finest pilot his prince had ever seen.

Marco was right -- he had been Someone. And he’d lost it all. What had any of it meant? Why did any of it matter?

Faster, faster.

Gafinilan had been the strong one, but Mertil was the quick one, the fluid one, despite his inability to morph. Mertil was the weaver who’d pierced through the path of their life like a needle. Gafinilan was the thread that trailed behind them, holding everything together. Now it had all fallen apart. What was left?

The only thing left was what had motivated Mertil his whole life. Mertil was relentless about exactly one thing -- so obsessed, he’d dragged Gafinilan along and eventually ruined their lives. Even though Gafinilan could morph, it had been Mertil who had first learned to fly, and Mertil who had been persistent enough to keep teaching Gafinilan, who was so difficult most instructors wrote him off. Mertil could never forget how to fly.

‹Mertil? Oh my god, Mertil, you know about the canyon right? Slow down, dude.›

He did know, and he had no intention of slowing. He pushed his body to its limits. He was surely on the verge of hurting himself, but there was nothing but freedom, power, strength pounding through him. Earth’s air was heavy in his lungs, but he was filled with otherworldly lightness.

In front of him, the ground opened up into nothingness. 

‹MERTIL!›

He lept.

Mertil tucked his upper body down and pulled up his front legs. He sailed higher than he’d expected. He watched the forest pass hundreds of meters below with his main eyes, but his stalk eyes pointed up. There was only sky above him and air below him and he was flying. The only thing he knew he was meant to do. He was a grazing being whose home was the sky and he’d brought Gafinilan up with him. But now Gafinilan was part of the earth and Mertil couldn’t follow him there. He still belonged in the sky.

At the apex of his arc, he stretched his front legs out. He was an arrow -- he could feel his hooves cutting through the air. The wind whipped around him and reminded him of what it was like to strike with his tail. No resistance, just pure, dangerous power. He didn’t have a tail anymore and he could never grow wings; he was barely an Andalite. But he could still fly.

His hooves hit the side of an opposite ridge with so much force, his knees buckled. He half expected them to shatter. He wouldn’t have cared. But his front legs sustained the impact and it rippled through his whole body, leaving him breathless. His back legs dropped down and found purchase lower down the ridge. His body was almost vertical, and he was perched precariously on the side of a mountain, but he had stuck the landing. He looked up at the sky, dazed and giddy from the rush of neurotransmitters and endorphins sweeping his system.

A large Earth bird blacked out the blue above him.

‹What the fuck, Mertil? What the FUCK? Are you INSANE?›

Marco was yelling, his thought-speak so ragged and frantic, his words blurred into jagged, bloody mental impressions. It was just as well, Mertil couldn’t even begin to care about the admonitions of a human child in that moment. His own personal serenity was flooding his senses, bringing every rock, tree, and cloud into bright, clear focus. 

Mertil lowered his back legs some more, careful to find solid footing as he navigated his way down the ridge. 

‹Mertil,› Marco said loudly, firmly. 

‹Yes, Marco?› Mertil answered placidly as he found a path that evened out so all four hooves could be on one level.

‹I thought you were trying to kill yourself,› Marco said, his hard thoughts still rimmed with anger.

‹I know what you thought,› Mertil said. ‹But I am not dead.›

‹You're nuts,› Marco said in shaken thought-speak. 

‹Possibly,› Mertil allowed. ‹You have to be, to get any sort of acclaim as a pilot.› 

Mertil had reached the bottom gulf between the two sides of the canyon and the grass there was lush, nurtured by the moisture that undoubtedly pooled in the crevices of the landscape. Mertil adopted a much more leisurely pace through the valley, so he could savor the prime grass. 

‹What if I'd watched you die?› Marco asked. 

‹You didn't, so it doesn't matter. But if you had, I suppose it would have taught you a lesson about the destructive nature of grief.›

‹I've _learned_ that lesson already, and it wasn’t a fun one. The lesson I'm learning right now is you're a _dick_ , just like every other Andalite I've ever met.›

It didn't show much propriety, but Mertil replied, ‹You are involved with an Andalite.›

‹Duh,› Marco said. ‹Still stands.›

Mertil continued to feed -- it had been days, and he hadn’t realized how nutrient-starved he actually was. He hadn’t yet appreciated how beautiful the place Marco and Aximili had found for him was. He had been eager to relocate and honestly would have accepted any open space. It would have taken him a long time to notice any deficiencies, in his aggrieved state. His friends -- was Aximili a friend? -- had taken great care to find a place that was remote, away from human hiking trails, and had overwhelming natural splendor. Mountains rose up around him in green rolling waves. The foliage was lush but not too thick to navigate. There was access to a river and Mertil knew a small lake was nearby. It seemed almost too perfect, like something Mertil didn't deserve. 

Marco fluttered down and landed on Mertil’s haunches. Mertil froze. He moved his tail stump instinctively to knock Marco off, but obviously he was unable, and quickly tucked it back down. He swiveled his stalk eyes to look at the bird whose talons sunk into his fur and grasped sharply at the skin underneath.

‹What are you doing?› Mertil demanded.

Marco seemed completely unconcerned, which was annoying. Mertil rankled at Marco’s disregard for his personal boundaries. ‹You gave me a heart attack; you owe me a ride,› Marco grumbled. ‹Speaking of rides, when I joked I was going to give you the ride of your life…›

‹Is that what you have in mind right now? I can give you an exciting ride, but you won’t enjoy it, I assure you,› Mertil said shortly.

‹No,› Marco answered quickly. ‹You just replied ‘I doubt it,’ and I wondered if you had something specific in mind.›

‹Of course,› Mertil said placidly, struggling to accept that his friend really was going to _ride_ him. His hackles were a bit prickly, but overall, he was controlling himself admirably. After all, he still had arms -- he didn’t need a tail to knock a bird off his hindquarters. ‹All fighter pilots have a catalogue of outrageous stories at the ready, for any opportunity to brag.› 

‹So what’s the best one? The ride of your life?› Marco asked, genuine interest eclipsing whatever anger he’d had. Humans were so mercurial in their animus.

Mertil didn’t have to think about it. ‹We were in the Taxxon system. Obviously, it was far gone, but we were there for routine reconnaissance. Our prince was not the most competent at stealth missions, and we were discovered shortly after emerging into the system. Possibly intentionally, Prince Farilin was a bit of a _granphit_.

‹Our fighters were deployed as the cruiser charged up another Z-space pulse to get us out of the system. There were four of us and about fourteen Bug fighters. I initiated a maneuver -- which Gafinilan had to follow or I would have died, but he cursed me to _yaolin_ and back. I forced us into an Aurreth Weave almost straight into the surface of the Taxxon sun. Ten of the Bug fighters were unable to escape the gravitational field and were incinerated. We were able to lag roll up and out of the field and make contact with the cruiser just in time for evacuation. The repairs to our fighters took weeks.› Much to his superior officers’ frustration, Mertil’s pride in his own actions as a pilot were usually measured in necessary repairs. 

‹Okay, so diving into a sun? That’s your Greatest Hits? I guess I get why you wanted to jump off a cliff today,› Marco said in a defeated voice. ‹I didn’t know that was your M.O.›

‹I am sure there is much you don’t know about me,› Mertil assured him. ‹I used to have a life.›

‹You still have a life,› Marco objected. He sounded tired. It wasn’t unusual for people to tire of dealing with Mertil eventually. Only Gafinilan had the patience to tolerate him long term -- possibly the reason he’d had no patience left for anything else.

‹A life with meaning, then,› Mertil said. He had ventured back into the deeper part of the forest. The path around the mountain instead of over it was about four times as long. One of Mertil’s stalk eyes scanned the sky, noting that if he didn’t pick up his pace, it would be dark by the time he got back to his scoop. He didn’t see any reason not to run.

‹Whoa!› Marco flared his one-point-five-meter wingspan. This caused an annoying amount of drag and almost lifted Marco off Mertil’s hindquarters, which forced Marco to dig his talons in deeper.

‹I hope you’re aware that you are piercing my flesh very unpleasantly,› Mertil said.

‹Yeah, sorry about that,› Marco apologized but didn’t fly away and continued to bounce, flap, and scratch.

‹ _Why_ are you on my back, Marco? You can actually fly.› _Unlike some of us_ , Mertil added privately.

‹Because I think you probably won’t jump off a cliff with me on your back,› Marco said seriously.

Mertil sighed. ‹I am sorry I frightened you. I have no intention of jumping off anything else tonight. But I have to point out, you are a bird. I trust you would fly away if I did.›

‹You are so bad at being reassuring,› Marco groaned, but he spread his wings, caught the wind as Mertil increased his speed again, and released Mertil’s haunches. Mertil didn’t get back up to his maximum speed, but he ran at a decent pace. He kept one stalk eye trained on Marco, whose bird morph had some trouble keeping up, to Mertil’s great satisfaction. 

They arrived back at the scoop. Mertil entered and dusted himself off with his hands again. ‹Please join me, Marco, I have a request.›

Marco swooped into the scoop and started to demorph. Mertil waited for him impatiently, staring at Gafinilan’s _hirac delest_. He didn’t need time to second guess this decision.

Marco stretched, once again at his full, unimpressive even for a human, height. He had thrown his clothing haphazardly around the scoop in his attempt to pursue Mertil. He gathered the garments and put them back on the appropriate appendages.

Mertil stood in front of the _hirac delest_ and touched it, careful not to activate it. He took it in his hands and accessed the internal system to engage the security measures that would keep most others from unlocking the message inside.

He turned to Marco and held out the small, midnight blue semisphere. Marco cupped his hands in front of him and peered at the object Mertil deposited there. Mertil’s hearts lurched, watching Marco’s deft human fingers trace along the curves of Gafinilan’s final missive.

“What is this?” Marco asked.

Mertil was focusing on controlling his breathing. He knew this was for the best. It was what Gafinilan would have wanted, if he’d known how it affected Mertil. Mertil was glad he would never know how weak he was, how easily he’d fallen apart without Gafinilan to hold him together.

‹That is Gafinilan’s _hirac delest_. His final statement before death. I need you to store it in a safe place, away from me. Please don’t let Aximili have it. He will likely be able to disable the security measures and… the contents are private.›

Marco stared down at the object in his hands like it was a bomb. “Of -- of course. I’ll take care of it. Are you sure?”

‹Very sure. I have proven to be very poor company, but I appreciate your concern and companionship. I am tired and wish to be alone now. But thank you. I hope to see you again soon.›

“Yeah, Mertil, it’s no problem.” Marco shifted between his two treacherous human feet. He was still staring at the _hirac delest_. Mertil was surprised his human friend was capable of an appropriate amount of deference. It was a good reminder that humans shouldn’t be underestimated. Marco climbed up over the rim of Mertil’s scoop, cradling his charge between his arm and his body. He peeked down at Mertil through the entrance. “So, bye, I guess. Please take care of yourself.”

‹I am going to try, my friend.›


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ax leaves the family dinner in Reconcile, Part Two, he reluctantly goes to Mertil for advice. Ax struggles with what is expected of him and has a suggestion to improve Mertil's life.

Mertil scrolled back through his composition. From the top, he believed it was fine, although the first lines had gotten stale from repetition in his mind. He thought the meter broke down a bit in the middle, but that, too, may just have been that he was tired of what he wrote. He reread the passage that was bothering him, trying to measure the beats of the words rather than the words themselves. 

Poetry was the most difficult of Andalite art forms -- thought-speak allowed them to transmit pure ideas and feelings and direct Andalite-to-Andalite thought poetry could be the most moving of artistic experiences. But choosing actual words that could be consumed indirectly or by data transfer was a finely honed skill for the naturally wordless Andalites.

Mertil considered himself a scholar more than a true poet, but the fact was, he needed a hobby. He glanced down at the plant Marco had brought him on his first visit to Mertil’s new scoop. He felt a small twist of guilt that the formerly lovely, fleshy leaves had begun to shrivel and darken, despite his best efforts. Truly, Mertil could murder anything that grew from the earth. 

He was mentally humming the rhythm of his poetry to himself when he heard the stamping of hooves outside and swiveled his stalk eyes. He could easily tell the hoof beats of an Andalite from a deer. There were only two people it could be, and Mertil held his breath until the hooves that approached were easily identifiable as belonging to Aximili. 

‹ _Aristh_ Aximili,› he greeted warmly but also tentatively. Aximili had never visited Mertil on his own. In fact, he’d only visited with express purpose, and the last time Mertil had seen him, it was to set up his scoop. ‹To what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance? Please, do me the honor of joining me in my home, if you can bring yourself to do so.›

Aximili dipped his upper body into the entrance and hopped down from the ledge. Mertil averted his main eyes, per protocol, but allowed himself to watch Aximili with a stalk eye. He was clearly agitated, but Mertil didn’t have the status to question him, so he would have to wait for him to volunteer information at his own pace. Mertil tried not to let himself begrudge the young _aristh_ , whom he wouldn’t have had a second thought about pulling rank on in normal circumstances. Mertil’s condition was not Aximili’s fault, nor was it his fault that they had roles to play because of it. Roles that reversed the order they were both used to.

Aximili, to his credit, was deferential by nature and was too distracted by whatever was already bothering him to be openly disturbed by Mertil’s deformity that day. 

‹I don’t know why I’m here,› Aximili admitted.

‹Is everything alright?› Mertil asked graciously. 

‹Do you know that Marco freed his mother from Visser One?› Aximili asked.

Mertil tilted his head and rotated his ears up and toward Aximili with interest. ‹No, I didn’t. What happened to Visser One?›

‹Marco killed it,› Aximili said flatly.

‹Good,› Mertil said, trying to keep his speech even as his thoughts began to race. ‹That is a major victory for our cause, and for him personally.› Mertil had so many questions, but as an outcast, he had no authority to ask them. It was such a frustrating position to be in.

‹Yes,› Aximili agreed. ‹Marco and his family are now living together in hiding. There are… many complications to this situation that have left me troubled.›

‹And that is why you are here?› Mertil asked.

‹In part,› Aximili confirmed. ‹I must apologize in advance for addressing the nature of my unusual personal association with Marco in such an indecorous way.›

‹I am sure you can’t be as indecorous as Marco himself,› Mertil assured Aximili.

‹Certainly not. I don’t believe even other humans can. Although his mother definitely comes close,› Aximili scoffed.

‹You have spent time with her?› Even though Aximili had warned him, Mertil was honestly scandalized by the level of disclosure taking place but endeavored not to show it. To openly portray oneself as close enough to another person to mix families was, among Andalites, almost vulgar. Mertil was shocked that Aximili was engaging so seriously in an interspecies affair.

At the same time, Mertil couldn’t stop himself from enjoying the irony that he, a lowly _vecol_ , was repulsed by the socially unacceptable actions of his only friends. 

‹I have just left the human ritual of a ‘family dinner’ with Marco, his father, and his mother. It is a ceremony in which a human family prepares food and everyone present shares the food, while asking intrusive questions. If one of the participants is from outside the family, that person is the target of the most personal interrogation.›

‹Oh, the humans have their own version of the proving ritual? What a nightmare.› Mertil shuddered.

Mertil felt sorry for Aximili. He had grown up with Gafinilan and his family. As far as Mertil was concerned, he and Gafinilan had always been _shorms_. There had never been a discernable shift in their relationship -- it just always _was_. And yet, after Gafinilan and Mertil were made full warriors and given their first assignment, their two families had insisted on confronting them with a proving ritual. Some families were so conservative, they refused to acknowledge a pair bond until children were born. As such, Mertil had hoped he would avoid it entirely. Mertil hadn’t even prepared, he was so caught off guard. The humiliation had been so painful, he could still think of it and grow warm from his ears to his hooves.

Mertil looked at Aximili, suddenly linking up the other half of his bizarre situation. Mertil pictured the absurdity of Aximili’s family putting Marco through a proving ritual and could barely contain his amusement. Mertil wouldn’t have a personal association with the son of Forlay-Esgarrouth-Maheen for all the moons of homeworld. As far as he knew, Elfangor had never had any relationship that could be construed in that way, and Mertil would not be surprised if fear of their mother had dissuaded potential suitors.

‹Humans have kinder intentions, I believe. I also think their goal is more to humiliate their own child, rather than the encroaching partner, but yes, it is most unpleasant,› Aximili agreed. ‹I don’t think I passed.›

‹Oh?›

‹This is my second time performing this ritual. Marco’s father had a different mate, and I passed the proving with her. But in saving his father from infestation… Marco sacrificed her. She’s enslaved now.›

Mertil stepped back and accidentally made direct eye contact with Aximili. Aximili stiffened and his hackles bristled. Mertil looked away shamefully. ‹That is very alarming, Aximili.›

‹I know,› Aximili said. ‹And we liberated his mother shortly after. He thinks he’s reunited his family, but even with my limited understanding of human relationships, I am sure this arrangement is uncomfortable and upsetting for his parents.›

‹You’ve found yourself in a very awkward situation.› Mertil could only state the obvious, he was so flabbergasted. 

‹I underwent the proving with Marco’s recently freed mother tonight, and she overwhelmed me with information about my own mother. I was forced to leave before the ritual was complete. She outflanked me.›

Aximili was clearly ashamed, but Mertil didn’t have the status to say or do anything he might have done if their positions were as they would normally be. Mertil had always been fond of both supporting and gently teasing the _arisths_ under him. He had been an absurdly popular mentor choice, unlike Gafinilan, who had only ever been requested once. Gafinilan also proudly held the record for fastest _aristh_ transfer. 

Aximili continued, sighing, ‹Her face… is still Visser One’s face to me.›

‹Humans don’t know our customs. I am sure you will get another opportunity to prove yourself to Marco’s mother… if you desire. I would think it was understandable if you didn’t, considering the complications,› Mertil said truthfully. ‹And you shouldn’t feel dishonor with regard to your caution toward the face of Visser One. There was little to prepare you for interacting with a former host. We don’t usually care to save them.›

‹Yes, thank you for that perspective.› Aximili was still troubled; his main eyes were behaving as stalk eyes.

Mertil knew he had no right to ask, and was hoofing the line with Aximili’s comfort level, but he was very curious about what Aximili said defeated him in the proving ritual. ‹What did Marco’s mother say about your mother?›

Aximili’s eyes narrowed but not directly at Mertil. Mertil’s pulses quickened at the impropriety of asking Aximili about his mother. Not only was it an insubordinate question for anyone below Aximili in rank, it didn’t even take Forlay-Esgarrouth-Maheen’s status into account. Properly, Mertil knew Aximili had endured questions and unsolicited opinions about his mother and brother his entire life and in knowing that about him, as someone of lower status, Mertil should have been obsequious in this situation. Mertil was the worst person to find himself in a social situation where obsequiousness was expected. He’d become a fighter pilot because he loved to fly, but the status had been a very welcome bonus. It was a hard switch to flip. 

Aximili knew what their culture expected of them in this situation. He shifted his hooves and looked outside. He should have been insulted enough to leave. Instead he balled his hands into fists and said, ‹She said Visser One read all my mother’s writings and wanted to target her for an infiltration effort.›

‹I see. Your mother has many fans, Aximili,› Mertil said airily. ‹Just because one of them happened to be Visser One doesn’t mean that Forlay-Esgarrouth-Maheen would consider even speaking to a Yeerk. Being an opponent of the military does not make her an ally of our enemies.›

‹Visser One thought it was a possibility,› Aximili said, his thought-speech rough.

‹Do you read your mother’s work at all?› Mertil asked.

‹No,› Aximili said shortly. 

Mertil smiled; he had assessed this child so astutely. ‹You wouldn’t even consider the possibility she would associate with Yeerks if you had.›

‹So, you’re a fan then?› Aximili asked, indignant. ‹You?›

‹What does that mean, ‘me’? _Vecols_ aren’t allowed to read?›

‹No,› Aximili blurted too quickly and then looked at his hooves, swinging his tail blade awkwardly. ‹No, nothing. Of course you’re allowed to read.›

Mertil’s smile deepened. He was shamefully gratified that Aximili wasn’t able to maintain his social position over him, in practice. He didn’t want to fall as far as was expected of him. 

‹I studied poetry in the Academy,› Mertil admitted.

‹ _You_?› Aximili said again, seemingly outraged.

‹Poetry is a fine art, Aximili! It’s very challenging, especially the avant-garde and resistance scenes.› Mertil was beyond amused that Aximili apparently had none of his mother’s subtlety.

‹Mertil-Iscar-Elmand, record holder for number of tail fight wins at the Academy,› Aximili muttered. ‹Flight airspeed record. Air-to-air kill record. Combat formation flight leader. _You_ read my mother’s poetry?›

Mertil inhaled a full lung capacity and held his breath. He wanted to laugh until he was breathless, but he could tell Aximili was already embarrassed. He couldn’t help himself at that point, though. ‹Please tell me you didn’t have my holoportrait.›

Aximili’s fur puffed up, and Mertil had to turn away. The irony was too much for him. He was marooned on a backwater planet with only one other free Andalite, crippled, widowed, and dishonored, and the adolescent to whom he was forced to submit was a fighter groupie. Mertil’s ancestors must have committed such horrible crimes.

‹If I still had your holoportrait, I would throw it out an airlock right now, if that makes you feel better,› Aximili said flatly.

‹I am sorry.› Mertil tried to gather whatever shred of dignity he had. There wasn’t much. ‹I don’t mean to embarrass you further. You have to understand, I have nothing left.›

‹I… I know.› 

‹It’s just so funny to have my achievements listed for me, when you are probably the last of our people I will ever see.›

‹No wonder Marco likes you. He would find that funny too,› Aximili said acquiescently. His fur was still in disarray from Mertil’s earlier provocation.

‹I do apologize,› Mertil said. ‹But yes. I like poetry. We are well-rounded warrior-scientist-artists, aren’t we?›

‹Ideally,› Aximili said. ‹I just assumed to be the kind of warrior you… were… you would have dedicated everything to the warrior part.›

‹You know, if Forlay wasn’t female, her poetry would canonically be considered a very pure expression of the warrior spirit,› Mertil said, emboldened by Aximili’s socially inappropriate responses. 

‹Please, don’t.› Aximili cut him off quickly. 

‹I am sorry if I offended.› Mertil attempted a gentle smile without making eye contact. Aximili sighed and nodded. ‹I enjoyed my studies immensely, actually. The only thing that really mattered to me was flying, and I could get very high-strung about it. Gafinilan needed so many extra lessons -- poetry and harmonics were my only breaks. I didn’t feel like I had to be the best at those or my life would end.› Mertil paused, suddenly somber. ‹If only I’d known.›

Aximili looked thoughtful. Mertil could see the thoughts racing behind his main eyes. Mertil couldn't help feeling something like pride that Aximili, clearly an _aristh_ who wasn’t naturally inclined to question hierarchy -- although he was certainly steeped in compromise now -- was so conflicted in carrying out his duty to shun Mertil. Mertil knew the pleasure he took in challenging Aximili’s dedication to convention was partly rooted in insecurity. His most personally disagreeable flaw had always been a gnawing need for validation. But if he couldn’t be petty at his lowest moment, what else could be be?

‹A penny for your thoughts,› Mertil said.

‹A human saying,› Aximili pointed out.

‹Yes, it is a good one, don’t you think? Pennies have no value to humans, so the phrase expresses an interest in receiving something potentially valuable, while also showing that the person inquiring offers nothing in return.› Now Mertil was on a roll. ‹Have you ever considered that phrase compared to ‘my two cents’? The implication being that one’s own thoughts are twice as valuable as another’s? But neither is worth much. Humans are amusing!› 

‹They are,› Aximili said, but didn’t look like he agreed, in this case. ‹I am not the last of our people you will ever see, if you truly have no interest in what little dignity solitude affords you.›

‹Clearly, I am very dedicated to solitude, Aximili. What are you doing in my scoop? This is an outrage.›

‹Sarcasm? You _have_ been studying the humans.› Mertil thought he sensed an edge of competition in Aximili’s thought-speak. Aximili considered himself the expert on humans.

‹What else do I have to do?› Mertil said with calculated disinterest. ‹It is unfortunate that I will never have any practical experience with them, so I can’t truly understand their natures.›

Aximili nodded, satisfied. ‹I have a Z-space transponder and am able to communicate with homeworld.›

‹Yes? And is the fleet coming to Earth in force, to valiantly rescue the humans and wipe the Yeerk scourge off this planet?›

‹No,› Aximili replied, flicking his tail blade impatiently. ‹But that was another competent application of sarcasm. I am sure if you speak with our people, they will be highly amused by it.›

‹Aximili, I am not going to speak to any other Andalites. I may not be dedicated to my duty, but others will force it upon me. I… am shamefully gratified that you debase yourself by associating with me. But you are living outside society, in a desperate situation, and I think if I were not your only choice for Andalite company, you would not.›

‹You are not mistaken,› Aximili said. ‹But that doesn’t mean that every Andalite on homeworld will shun you. I know of at least one who would be eager to speak to you. The poetic tragedy of the disgraced hero would be enough for her.› 

Aximili’s thoughts were colored with disdain, but Mertil was too busy struggling to force heavy Earth air in and out of his respiratory systems. ‹You’re not serious.› 

‹Yes, I am. I think my mother would be very interested in you. I am sure she and her _associates_ would care very little about your… bodily status; they respect very few of our ways. If I can get her to answer my messages.› Aximili added, ‹I would appreciate your help establishing a secure line, if I attempt to do this.›

‹I am shocked you would consider it, truthfully,› Mertil said, cursing his own wavering thought-speech. The opportunity to speak with someone he admired, and the thought that she might not look at him with disgust. That in fact, she may have a community that would accept him… He felt light on his hooves.

‹Yes, well,› Aximili said carefully, ‹I am very familiar with isolation. I know the value of being a part of something, even if it is not what you planned.›

‹Aximili, I hope you get to be a prince someday,› Mertil stated plainly.

‹It is hardly likely, but I appreciate the sentiment.› Aximili faltered a bit, taken aback by such a high compliment from the warrior he still admired, despite himself. Aximili’s stalk eyes looked at the sky outside. ‹I must get back. I am sure Marco is waiting for me in my scoop. I shouldn’t leave him alone too long; he has already begun filling it with garbage.›

Mertil shuddered at the awkward fondness in Aximili’s thought-speak but bowed his head forward. ‹Thank you for coming, _Aristh_ Aximili. I hope everything works out favorably for you. Fight well.›

Aximili hopped easily over the ridge of the scoop entrance. ‹I will be in touch,› he promised.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Marco's sixteenth birthday and all he wants to do is have a scavenger hunt with Andalites. And that is what he gets, with a behind-the-scenes assist from Tobias.

Mertil reviewed the memory dump he made after his last message from Forlay. He reorganized his thoughts, hoping to make something coherent out of his own stupid ramblings. Samples. She wanted samples. She wanted to make the public more aware of the situation on Earth. It had been a one-way message, so he hadn’t been able to argue that he was hardly fit to be a correspondent from the Earth front. He wasn’t even involved. He was completely useless. Why not Aximili? 

Well, it was obvious to Mertil why she didn’t ask Aximili to do it. For one, his perspective as the ostensibly loyal _aristh_ whose greatest hope was to rejoin the military, even if it meant no rank or recognition for his years of service, wasn’t exactly in line with Forlay’s message. For another, it was clear Aximili and his mother had no small amount of animosity for each other. 

It had taken weeks of sending one-way messages and having face-to-face transmissions with Aximili’s father, Noorlin-Sirinial-Cooraf, to arrange a simple meeting. Noorlin greeted Aximili in the aloof nature that was typical for public communication -- all messages among civilians and low-ranking military were subject to surveillance by high command, and no one wanted the embarrassment of an emotional outburst. However, Noorlin was eager to see Aximili and spoke to him with subtle fondness. Mertil noted he had standard civilian difficulties maintaining the composure that was expected of them, and he could see Aximili’s underlying soft nature in his father.

When they finally got to speak to Forlay, she did not greet Aximili at all -- a major slight. She was certainly a sight to behold, and even Mertil had difficulty controlling his expression when her image appeared before them. She had recently undergone the _unschweet_ , and her almost-black fur was closely cropped and fuzzy. Mertil had never seen the ritual performed on a civilian, and he had never seen what appeared to be a full shearing. He noticed a notch in her ear that looked fresh and wondered if someone had been intentionally careless with their blade. What had she done to deserve this? Either way, she didn’t look shamed in the least.

Her comportment did not read civilian at all, and in fact, her thought patterns were as aggressive as any War-Prince Mertil had ever been on a line with. Her eyes, the same shape and color as Aximili’s -- possibly their only physical similarity -- were hard and fiery. Mertil’s hearts fluttered when he saw her. 

Aximili’s interactions with her were stilted, and hers with him were short and expeditious. When Aximili introduced Mertil, her demeanor changed. She didn’t soften at all, but she spoke to him with the level of formality afforded very important people. Mertil hadn’t expected to be treated that way and actually clarified with her that she knew he was a _vecol_. She forbade him from calling himself that in front of her.

Their initial meeting had been cordial. She was interested in what had happened to him since the GalaxyTree crashed. She had done her research -- she knew Gafinilan was his _shorm_ and expressed her regards on learning of his passing. She had even looked into Mertil’s writing from the Academy, which was mortifying, considering he had spent a whole year publishing on the diplomatic implications of the war resistance movement and the utility of incorporating their ideology into official negotiation tactics. He’d cited Forlay extensively. He had played thought recordings of her _On War Crimes_ during all of Advanced Combat Tactics and still associated the tone of her thought-speak with running through Vertical Rotating Blades with Gafinilan until the commander demanded they retire for the night.

Aximili may have had Mertil’s holoportrait, but Forlay’s thoughts had been the anthem to the brightest years of Mertil’s life. As far as he was concerned, she was the ideal Andalite warrior. That she was a woman only seemed to strengthen her. Mertil hadn’t understood how that could be, before his injury. Now he knew the force of will it took to overcome cultural expectations and realize your value beyond your assigned role. He was still learning. Forlay-Esgarrouth-Maheen looked at him with all four eyes, thanked him, and told him he was important.

After that, she was impossible to contact again, which Aximili stated was typical of her. She had forwarded some names and secure channels of people in her movement, but Mertil was loathe to impose on Aximili to make calls to strangers at such personal risk. Then she forwarded another message and asked Mertil for samples.

That’s where Mertil was, unpacking jubilation, delirium, and insecurity and trying to figure out which was stronger. He decided he couldn’t rearrange his thoughts any more effectively in his scoop and hopped out into the open air for a run. He didn’t get far before he noticed two large birds, circling around each other, performing the sort of flying tricks that young, bored pilots do before their commanders yell at them to get their hooves out of the sky.

‹Marco and Aximili?› he asked. ‹Or am I being followed by some very unusual, trained Earth birds?›

‹We are very unusual,› Aximili confirmed.

‹And we are Earth birds -- right now, anyway,› Marco agreed.

‹Trained, though?› Mertil asked. ‹Unlikely.›

Marco laughed and Mertil watched him roll into a dive and pull back up, flying for the joy of flying. Mertil felt a pang of jealousy but also comfort. Just being able to see flight was freedom. 

‹Hey Mertil, guess what?› Marco asked in a playful tone.

‹You beat that video game that was angering you?› Mertil guessed.

‹No, Ax did, when I was asleep, and I missed the final cutscene,› Marco complained.

‹You said it would take me hours to beat the boss, and it took me twenty minutes. I thought you would wake up in time,› Aximili said with significant superiority.

‹I didn’t expect you to just spam Knights of the Round, that’s so cheap.›

‹I mated and raced ridiculous birds for an entire week to get that spell; I was not about to ignore my ultimate attack during the final confrontation.›

‹Did I guess?› Mertil interrupted.

‹No! Guess again!› Marco crowed.

‹It is Marco’s birthday,› Aximili interjected.

‹God, Ax, is your birthday gift to me ruining my fun?›

‹No, that is a gift I give to you everyday with no expectation of return on my investment. You are welcome.›

‹Happy birthday, Marco,› Mertil said, feeling like he was wrangling unfocused _arisths_ for their first flying demonstration. ‹Congratulations on completing another revolution around your star.›

‹You say that like it’s not an accomplishment, but I’ve had my guts on the ground more times this year than the total number of years I’ve been alive, so I think it’s something to celebrate,› Marco said with cheer that Mertil couldn’t distinguish as genuine or not.

‹Are you on your way to a celebration?› Mertil asked sincerely.

‹No, dude, I want to celebrate my birthday with you. Remember when I told you I was gonna take you on a ride?› Marco asked.

‹What are you talking about? You can’t take me on a ride. If you get on my back again, I promise I will jump in the river and drown you,› Mertil said lightly but may have been serious.

‹Well, that’s unsettling, but no. I obviously can’t get my driver’s license, being legally dead and all, but Ax did agree that we could do something special, if you’re up for it.› Marco tucked his wings and dove down, landing next to Mertil. Aximili followed suit. Mertil took the time to admire how well-suited for flight and maneuverability their bird forms were before they began to shift and distort back into their original bodies. Mertil turned away; morphing made him squeamish. 

When he was human again, Marco bent down. Mertil noticed there was some sort of paper affixed to his ankle with an elastic. Marco pulled his foot up, balancing precariously on only one leg, much to the horror of both Mertil and Aximili. Aximili put a hand on Marco’s shoulder to steady him -- a tawdry display.

“Ax, come on, I’m not gonna fall.” Marco pulled the elastic off his ankle and palmed the rolled paper. To the Andalites’ relief, he put both feet back on the ground and stood up straight again. Surprisingly, Aximili was degenerate enough to leave his hand on Marco several seconds longer than required. Marco swept his hair up and twisted it lightly around one finger, using his impressive human dexterity to affix the elastic so that his hair was loosely piled at the crown of his head. He then presented the rolled up piece of paper before the two Andalites.

‹Impressive,› Mertil noted, employing human sarcasm again.

Marco moved his eyes to show an excessive amount of white parts -- a disgusting habit of his. He unrolled the paper and squinted at it. “Oh jeez, Tobias’ handwriting is terrible. Does he even morph human to write? Seriously.”

‹I have seen your own attempts at human written communication -- › Aximili started imperiously, but Marco shoved the piece of paper at him and Aximili examined it. ‹Oh. Oh, yes, this is much worse.› 

“This is going to be more of a challenge than I planned,” Marco said wryly. “Okay, so do you know what a scavenger hunt is, Mertil?”

‹It sounds like something a Taxxon would do,› Mertil offered.

“Well. Ew.” Marco contorted his face, wrinkling it all up into the center. Human expressions were truly disturbing. “No, it’s a game humans play where we figure out clues to find something, usually a gift or a prize.”

‹Why is it called something so aggressive?› Mertil asked.

‹I asked the same thing!› Aximili asserted.

“Aren’t you two cute? No, it’s called that because you have to _scavenge_ and _hunt_ for the clues,” Marco explained.

‹That seems a little redundant, if the words are used in the same way. If you are scavenging but you are not intending to eat carcasses or repurpose refuse, which I hope you are not… then is it not a hunter hunt?› Mertil mused.

“If I do eat a carcass will you stop nitpicking and just go along with it?” Marco sighed.

‹Oh no, quite the opposite, that sounds horrible,› Mertil said.

“I’m _not_ gonna eat a carcass,” Marco fumed. “You know, maybe this was a bad idea.”

‹But your gift is already hidden,› Aximili pointed out. 

“Ugh, you’re right.” Marco pivoted his body and planted his forehead against Aximili’s arm. Aximili looked down at Marco with his main eyes, but his stalk eyes were spiraling with mortification, looking at Mertil.

This display was too much for Mertil, who felt his fur rise all over and puffed his chest in outrage. He turned away and lowered his shoulder at Aximili, a gesture that showed him he was so disgraceful, it would be easier for them both if Aximili lopped his head off. Aximili, to his credit, did not dispute the insult and lightly shoved Marco away, his own fur prickling.

Marco inflated his cheeks in a human gesture of annoyance. “Okay, can we just skip ahead to the part where you don’t have to act like peacocks if Ax and I touch? This outing will be very difficult if you have to stop every few steps and poof up. Which, by the way, is ridiculous-looking. And kind of adorable.”

‹What will make it so difficult?› Mertil asked, reposturing himself warily. 

“Because,” Marco said, “we’re going on a _ride_. As in, the clues are all over this State Park, and no one knows the area but you, Mertil. As in, there’s no way I can keep up with two Andalites running around. As in...” Marco exposed many of his sharp human teeth, and Mertil understood why predators’ faces looked so savage, even in mirth. “Ax said I could ride on his back.”

Mertil turned angrily to Aximili and said to him privately, ‹Are you really going to let this _human_ debase you?›

Aximili sighed and shook his head in a humanlike expression of surrender. ‹It’s his birthday. Their ritual calls for significant expressions of appreciation to the person who is celebrating. The personal cost of the expression is meant to be proportional to how important your shared relationship is.›

‹I don’t understand why such a simple event calls for so much sacrifice of dignity on your part,› Mertil said.

‹You are aware that all of us have relocated to the Hork-Bajir valley. Our operations are getting increasingly desperate. This may very well be Marco’s final birthday. And his _shorm_ , Prince Jake didn’t even remember it.› Aximili sounded disappointed and angry when he said “Prince Jake.” So, they were also having leadership problems. ‹Marco’s request of me was to run with us, and short of morphing one or both of us, which is more disturbing and I suspect neither of us will allow, this is what I came up with.›

Mertil glanced at Marco pitiably. Marco was looking out over the canyon, his arms crossed. Mertil judged his expression as annoyance, probably because he knew they were discussing him in front of him. Mertil was aware, however, that there was always something deeper and darker under Marco’s frivolous and rude exterior. He wondered if, like Andalites, the human commemoration of one’s birth was also a reminder of one’s eventual death. Marco certainly didn’t need that reminder.

‹I am agreeable to your birthday plan,› Mertil said finally. ‹All I ask is that you do not call me ‘adorable’ again.›

“Dude,” Marco said with a sharp glance at Mertil. “I can’t make that promise.”

Marco broke out in another disturbing human smile and threw his arms around Aximili’s torso in an expression of affection called a hug. Aximili winced with embarrassment, and Mertil averted his eyes. This was going to be a hard day. Marco locked his arms more tightly around Aximili and pitched his upper body forward over Aximili’s lower body. He threw his right leg up and over, while simultaneously pulling himself up with his arms. Mertil didn’t want to look, but he was also fascinated at the humans’ maneuverability in their inferior and awkwardly arranged bodies. 

Marco settled into what appeared to be a comfortable straddling position behind Aximili’s shoulder ridge and threaded his fingers together in front of Aximili’s waist.

‹I will have to live in exile if either of you tells anyone about this,› Aximili stated. He took a few steps to make sure his footing was still sure with a passenger. Marco was a small human, so Mertil didn’t anticipate Aximili would have trouble supporting him, at least short term.

‹You may not live with me,› Mertil joked back. ‹You forced me to witness this, and I intend to resume my solitude after today.›

“Are you guys joking? Andalite jokes are awkward,” Marco complained.

‹Yes, we are joking,› Aximili answered and started off at a gentle trot. Marco bounced a bit, causing Aximili’s gait to be heavier than usual. His tail was low slung, but that could be the persisting shame. 

Mertil followed at Aximili’s side. ‹Kind of,› Mertil added.

“Is this a PDA thing, or is it that I’m an alien?” Marco asked.

‹It’s public affection,› Aximili answered.

‹It’s both,› Mertil said at the same time.

Marco pushed his mouth together so that his lips disappeared into just a downturned line. “Oh, good. Because I don’t have enough anxiety about my identity and what people think about me.” Marco looked up at Mertil and added, “That’s sarcasm.”

‹Don’t worry, Mertil is very good at sarcasm,› Aximili countered.

‹If you are so concerned about what people think, why are you…› It was difficult for Mertil to apply a euphemism to their relationship when it was on such obvious display.

“Why am I dating an alien in the first place?” Marco completed his thought for him, in unpleasant human terms. “Gee, I’m glad it’s so easy to choose who you fall for. I must be really stupid for always picking my straight friends, bloodthirsty viking women, and aliens.”

Aximili increased his pace and Marco had to grasp him more tightly. Mertil hoped Aximili would bounce Marco enough to make him stop talking so much, but much to Mertil’s chagrin, Aximili seemed to be quite a smooth ride. Mertil matched Aximili’s canter easily, and the natural thrill Andalites experience from running together washed over him. It had been too long.

‹I think this will be fine,› Aximili confirmed. ‹Did you figure out what the first clue said?›

“Yeah, it said, ‘when you stare death in the face, look in the eye socket,’” Marco said. “Tobias is a bit morbid, huh?”

‹Very foreboding,› Mertil commented. ‹What does it mean?› 

‹I assume all these clues will refer to a physical landscape feature. But I should hope Tobias isn’t directing us to a human burial ground,› Aximili commented.

“‘When you stare death in the face’…” Marco repeated. “So like… a rock that looks like a skull or something? Mertil, any ideas?”

Mertil wasn’t sure he knew of any such rocks. He tried to mentally map the area. ‹I know of a possibility. Follow me, I suppose,› Mertil beckoned. 

Mertil kicked off into a slow gallop, keeping one stalk eye on Aximili, wondering if he would be able to match pace with Marco on his back. Mertil knew from their physiques that he would be able to best Aximili in an actual race, but Aximili did have the endurance and agility of youth. How much could Mertil make him maneuver, with an extra fifty kilos to bear? It was energizing to challenge his young friend.

Aximili stayed parallel with Mertil’s shoulder, and Marco had to press himself into Aximili’s back to stay mounted. That was a relief; Marco would have to yell to say anything obnoxious and his face was planted firmly between Aximili’s shoulderblades. Human mouth sounds were so inefficient. 

Mertil led them through the forest, winding up toward a mountain peak, intentionally avoiding paths in favor of weaving between hardy shrubs, and jumping over rocks. Mertil’s hearts were racing, not from exertion, but from the excitement of running freely with someone else for the first time since he was on the GalaxyTree. Even then, running in a dome ship is not the same as running in nature. Mertil leapt over a stream and couldn’t help stamping his hooves jubilantly while he waited for Aximili to catch up. Aximili soared impressively over the stream, and Marco shouted, pressing his face into Aximili’s back in terror.

‹Enjoying your run?› Mertil teased Marco. Both he and Aximili dipped their hooves into the stream for a short drink.

Marco was panting and flushed, his hands fisted into the fur on Aximili’s chest. “You can’t just take the gentle path. Noooo, you have to lead us up a mountain like we’re doing some kind of crazy alien agility course.”

‹Yes, of course,› Mertil said, resuming his route at a moderate trot, as they had almost reached the zenith of the mountain. ‹This is the only place you can see what I’m trying to show you.›

‹Mertil had a reputation amongst other _arisths_ for being unpredictably severe as a mentor,› Aximili recalled, following him closely.

Mertil laughed. ‹Did I?›

‹Yes,› Aximili confirmed. ‹Your reviews were very inconsistent. Half your _arisths_ said you were the most supportive and stimulating mentor they ever had, and the other half said your expectations were terrifying and unreasonable. Actually, a not-insignificant number said both.›

“Like, a teacher-rating website?” Marco asked, his interest piqued.

‹Something like that,› Aximili answered. ‹The private channel on the Academy communication stream. It is where _arisths_ mostly do a lot of complaining, and there were info dumps on all the warrior mentors and instructors. Sort of a warning system for whom you should try to avoid getting assigned to. There was also sharing of answers and assignments.› Disdainfully, he added, ‹Of course, I rarely frequented the private channel.›

‹It wasn’t very private, either; all the instructors had access,› Mertil snorted. With a sly smile, he asked Aximili, ‹Were you on my waiting list?›

‹No,› Aximili said quickly. Then he muttered, ‹It was so long, I would have graduated the Academy before I got the assignment.›

“Okay, but wait, you’re not telling the most important part,” Marco said. “Is there a hotness rating? That’s like, the number one teacher rating metric.”

‹Marco, _please_ , Andalites are above such vulgar things,› Aximili seethed.

Marco raised himself up on his knees, balancing precariously, so he could put his chin on Aximili’s shoulder. “What was Mertil’s hotness rating?”

Aximili looked both concerned for Marco’s safety and annoyed. ‹You’re embarrassing.›

Mertil stopped, having reached the edge of the mountaintop. He looked down to make sure they were at the right angle to see what he was trying to show them. Satisfied, he turned back to the pair. ‹Now I’m curious, Aristh Aximili.›

Marco broke out laughing, and Aximili folded his ears back in humiliation. 

‹It was… _very high_ ,› Aximili admitted begrudgingly.

“I KNEW IT,” Marco cheered and Aximili cringed.

Allowing himself a bit of conceit, Mertil smiled. He waved his hand out over the valley below them. ‹Do you see that line of rocks? If you stand at this angle, that rocky outcropping and that cave look like eyes. The line of rocks is horrible human teeth. And in the center, that copse of trees looks like a nose. Like you said, the image of a skull.›

“That’s like, way more involved than I thought it was gonna be,” Marco commented, flatly.

‹This _was_ put together for us by Tobias,› Aximili reminded.

‹Your _shorm_ who is trapped as a bird?› Mertil asked.

‹Yes. He gets bored.›

‹So, should we assume that all these clues are going to be from the perspective of a bird?› Mertil asked. 

Marco and Aximili exchanged looks. Aximili said, ‹Yes, that is what humans call a ‘safe bet.’› 

‹Well, I guess we should retrieve the next clue, because we are probably in for a lot of running.›

Mertil led Aximili and Marco down the mountain. This time, he picked a very clear path so that he and Aximili could bound down the mountain at top speed. Exhilaration coursed through Mertil in bursts as he watched Aximili’s legs stretch out in front and behind him in long leaps, just like his own. Marco’s screams were very satisfying, as well. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Marco chanted as Mertil and Aximili’s inertia bolstered their run to the cave that formed the right eye of the skull formation.

‹Is running with us everything you hoped, Marco?› Mertil asked mockingly as they came to a gradual stop at their destination.

Marco still had his cheek pressed against Aximili’s back, and the white parts showed all around his eyes. “Actually, besides the part where I’m terrified, it’s great. It feels… really good. It’s hard to describe.”

‹It’s odd humans feel that way, too,› Mertil said, squinting at both of them. ‹Andalites have a natural hormonal response to social running. Evolutionarily, it means we are less vulnerable when feeding, but practically, it’s very pleasurable.›

Marco made an odd expression, like he was smiling and frowning at the same time. Aximili looked like he was next up in a flight drill he hadn’t practiced. One corner of Marco’s mouth settled on the smiling side. “I guess when Ax is happy, I’m happy too.”

‹Very sensitive of you,› Mertil remarked. 

Marco lowered himself off Aximili’s back, and both Andalites were horrified that his legs looked even shakier than usual. He was so unstable, he had to hold his knees with his hands. Bent over this way, he squinted into the small, shallow cave. “Do you think it’s safe?”

‹Is your friend the sort who would send you into danger for no reason?› Mertil inquired.

‹Not usually, but I think he’s molting right now, and that always makes him irritable,› Ax said helpfully.

“He definitely is; he stuffed a bunch of feathers in my backpack the other day because I said Radiohead isn’t good,” Marco scoffed. Mertil and Aximili shared a confused glance. Marco seemed satisfied that he probably wasn’t going to be harmed in the cave and bent his knees so they were touching his chest, groping blindly with his hands.

‹They are so awkward,› Mertil said to Aximili privately.

‹I know,› Aximili stated in resignation.

“Aha!” Marco exclaimed, and pulled himself up. He held the paper up in his left hand and brushed himself off with his right. He unfolded the paper and squinted at it, tipping his head to the left. “God. I think this says ‘grab the snake by its tail.’ What? We’re going to have to give up if he’s tied a clue to a live snake.”

‹This is ‘Rattlesnake Canyon,’ is it not? Is it named for a physical feature?› Aximili asked.

“I think it’s named that because there’s a lot of rattlesnakes,” Marco deadpanned.

Mertil looked up at the sky, attempting to see something he’d never seen. He closed his main eyes and envisioned his territory -- the woods and the mountains and their shapes together -- then he pulled out on that mental picture, extrapolating on what the landscape looked like from high above. His two companions had actually flown over this territory countless times, but Mertil had more flight hours than the two of them put together. He didn’t need to see the overhead view in person to know what it looked like.

‹The ridges here are too rocky for many trees to take root,› Mertil explained. ‹So the forest winds through at the lowest part, in a long strip that leads from your city out into the greater part of the mountain range. It terminates fairly sharply. I can see how the green line of trees would resemble a snake.›

“Sounds like a fair hypothesis,” Marco said. He braced one hand on Aximili’s withers and the other over the incline of his spine. He attempted to mount Aximili gracefully, but only managed to hop far enough that his chest draped over Aximili’s back. Marco had to scrabble and scoot his body 90 degrees to reclaim his riding position. Aximili’s eyes were unfocused, like he was pretending it wasn’t happening. Mertil had almost become accustomed to the arrangement, to the point he could appreciate the humor of the situation. 

They resumed their run, and Mertil led them to the end of the serpentine forest. On the very last tree rooted into the side of the mountain, Marco was able to grab another piece of paper hanging from a branch. The next clue was just as ponderous and slightly grim. With each new clue, Mertil led them around his territory, mapping the path in his mind, putting together the pattern. When Marco found the final one, he didn’t even have to open it.

‹I know where the destination is. Your friend is very ironic.› Mertil appreciated irony.

Marco opened the clue anyway. The paper was larger than the others had been and Mertil could see Marco’s eyes scanning for several lines before he made an explosive sound with his lips and hit himself in the forehead. “These are just the lyrics to ‘Subterranean Homesick Alien.’ By Radiohead. Tobias is such a piece of -- ”

‹Yes, your gift is presumably in my scoop. We’ve been spiraling back to where we started. Although, I would hardly call myself homesick.› Mertil, amused, led them the short distance back to his dwelling. He was satisfied to see a small package had been deposited near the entrance where it had not been before. He knew he hadn’t overlooked something being smuggled into his home.

Marco slid off of Aximili’s back. Aximili shook himself and then bent down into a stretch, before pulling himself forward and gently whipping his tail back and forth, loosening it up. Mertil suddenly became aware of his own tail and swiveled a single stalk eye around to look. 

Instead of holding it tight under his leg, he’d been using his stump to counterbalance while running all day. Allowing it to freely extend, it looked like a fluid extension of his spine again, and the tension he usually felt in his shoulders and lower back was all but gone. Mertil glanced at Aximili, shoulder to shoulder with Marco, who had picked up his gift and turned the box in his hands. Both were smiling and casual; neither seemed to care.

Mertil didn’t care, either. 

“What is this?” Marco asked, squinting at the contents of his gift box.

Mertil stepped forward to have a look. Inside was a small device that Aximili had clearly pieced together from spare parts of Earth machinery and an Andalite communication module he’d asked Mertil for a couple months previously. Mertil hadn’t asked what he wanted it for; he had a whole box of salvage he didn’t have the expertise to put to good use. Aximili was the better engineer. Even though the configuration was haphazard, Mertil thought he knew what it was. 

Aximili explained, ‹It is a device which I have used to collect messages from all our friends, your parents, and myself. I asked them each to record a message about their general feelings, but also to make a personal statement to you. This is a critical time, and even though it is harrowing, I believe it will be important to remember.›

Marco stared at his gift, his face inscrutable. “I… uh. Yeah. I don’t know what to say. Thanks.” Mertil had difficulty interpreting if Marco was pleased with the gift or not, but he could see that Marco was gripping the box so tightly, his knuckles were white.

Privately, to Aximili, Mertil said, ‹You collected a _hirac delest_ from them all?›

‹Essentially,› Aximili responded.

‹And you gave it to Marco?›

‹He is the most likely to save himself,› Aximili said, a dark tone coloring his thought-speak. To Marco, Aximili said, ‹Would you like a ride back to the valley? This will be the last time.›

Marco, still unreadable to Mertil, handed Aximili the device inside its box and pulled himself back up onto Aximili’s back. Aximili handed his gift back to him, and Marco tucked it under his arm. “Thanks for spending the day with us, Mertil. It was really cool. Hope you had fun, too.”

‹Of course, Marco. Again, happy birthday. Fight well, both of you,› Mertil said. 

Mertil watched Aximili run away, feeling one last surge of energy at his departure. Mertil stretched his tail out, testing its articulation. He hopped down into his scoop, noticing the improvement in his balance with his tail relaxed. Mertil woke his computer and picked up the memory dump he had been working with earlier in the day. His stalk eyes took in the panorama of his scoop. It was growing dim, except for the light of his screen. It was silent, except the gentle hum of his equipment. It was empty, except for him. 

He didn't know how long he'd felt this way, but Mertil didn’t feel empty.

Forlay asked him to send her samples -- he planned to. Marco hoped he had fun -- he had. He spent a beautiful day being a carefree, tailless Andalite with his strange, shameless friends, running the way Andalites run, with homeworld dozens of light years away. He felt free of the chains of duty. And grief.

Gafinilan hadn’t weighed him down at all.

He was moving on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mertil knows it's time for the end. He's prepared for the worst and he's ready to let go. There's a small hiccup in his plan when Marco returns Gafinilan's _hirac delest_. Mertil listens to it one last time.

Mertil held the long braid of grass in his hands, all but one watchful stalk eye closed. He had never been the best at memorizing the exact words of rituals, much to the annoyance of his own very orthodox family. His father’s scolding still echoed in his mind, all these years later, as he stumbled over the philosophical strings that entwined to form the traditional mantras for this meditation. 

His father had always said the exact words were the most important, that knowing all the details and motions meant you had true dedication to the ritual. Mertil had argued that true dedication was a feeling, and it was more important to commit the feeling of the ritual to your hearts. It was one of many fundamental disagreements he had with both his parents.

Mertil’s father was War-Prince Solorin-Iscar-Halas, and his mother was an astrophysicist. They were as traditional as a family could be. It wasn’t that Mertil had tried to rebel -- the opposite was true -- he had been crushed by the weight of their expectations. Like his mother, he was unable to morph, so he had to reshape himself from the inside out. But as much as Mertil had ever achieved, he had never personally lived up to his parents’ expectations. Mertil could perform the motions, but the very fabric of him was too supple, too yielding. He didn’t have the stability or steadfastness to be a proper warrior. He wasn’t even a particularly good Andalite.

Part of his hesitance in working with Forlay had been revealing, not just to the people, but to his family, that he had not, in fact, died an honorable death. He wasn’t even observing the solitude and silence that were expected of him as a _vecol_. Forlay had offered to publish his work under a pseudonym, but Mertil’s ego demanded he get credit for the one thing he could still do. The pretense of his death was already over -- his reports were circulating through the civilian underground. That meant military intelligence would have them, which meant his father knew. His parents would both know their only progeny was crippled, ostracized, and publishing subversive opinions. 

In some ways, knowing that nothing could redeem him now was freeing. Nothing he had ever done had been enough. His family may as well have shunned him from the beginning. Now he knew he couldn’t change himself for them; his very body was literally not enough. It was over. That fact filled him with a grotesque pleasure. He wasn’t a good Andalite, indeed.

Mertil banished thoughts of his family from his mind. He banished, too, his worry for the exact wording of the mantra. He’d read it -- he knew how it was supposed to feel. This ritual was a feeling, more than any other in his culture. He emptied his mind and pulled the cord through his fingers, feeling each smoothly woven strand.

Mertil focused on his breathing and said quietly, ‹I have nothing to surrender, for nothing was mine. I am part of the grass, the water, and the sky. All other things are impermanent. That which ties me is impermanent.› 

He threaded the grass cord between each of his fingers, tightening the length between his two fists. 

‹To be tied is not freedom. Freedom is my only cause. Freedom unites us. I must release my ties to that which is no longer here and that which may soon pass. In doing this, I will find peace.›

Mertil pulled the cord through his fingers, feeling it weave through each digit, appreciating each supple fold. He held it lightly between his upward facing palms, continuing to meditate on what he had lost and might still lose.

“Mertil? It’s Marco.”

Mertil closed his hands on the braid. Irrationally, he felt like he had summoned Marco. Mertil’s stalk eye saw Marco dip into the entrance of his scoop, and he turned to face him. It was surprising to see him. Mertil hadn’t even done his morning ritual yet -- he’d been up all night preparing for the other ritual he was going to perform right after. 

‹Good morning, Marco. It is early. Are you coming in?›

When Marco jumped down into the scoop, Mertil could appreciate that he was absolutely ragged. Mertil was no expert on human health or expressions, but he was familiar enough with Marco to know that his eyes weren’t generally ringed with dark purple shadows and he didn’t generally present with a near-flat affect. Mertil wrapped the grass braid around the base of the fingers of his left hand. Things were coming to an end.

“Yeah. I don’t have a lot of time. You know we blew up the Yeerk Pool?”

‹I do. I felt the tremors and ventured close enough to the city to see the sinkhole. And I have seen the Bug fighters firing from here,› Mertil said. 

Without the ability to morph, it was even more risky for Mertil to travel, now that it was open war. He’d had no choice; Aximili had stopped providing him with updates weeks ago. Mertil assumed he was struggling with questions of duty and loyalty and felt compromised by Mertil’s associations with his mother. Mertil had his own duty to document what was happening, even if he couldn’t do anything for the actual effort.

“Yeah, they’re razing the town. It’s basically the apocalypse. I guess we held it off as long as we could.” Marco raked his hands through his hair, then squinted at his fingernails and brushed his hand off on his pants. “We’re planning to take down the Pool ship.”

‹What? That’s…› 

Mertil hadn’t said “suicide,” but Marco seemed to know what he was thinking. “Yep. So. I’m here to say goodbye.” 

No “just in case.” No questions. No humor.

‹I see. Is there anything that is required, in this situation?› 

“Like a death ritual? Ax has been doing that one daily for a while now. It’s not unnerving at all.” Marco looked up at the sky, still the dark cobalt of pre-sunrise. Marco rubbed the back of his neck and looked back at Mertil. “No. I mean, whatever you want to do or say, I don’t know. Nothing specific in my culture. I guess some people pray, but that’s not me.”

Mertil unwrapped the braid of grass from around his hand and held it out to Marco. 

‹Will you pull this through your fingertips for me?› Mertil requested. 

Marco took the cord, feeling the end between the tips of his fingers, where Mertil had woven the strands together tightly so the fibers wouldn’t unwind. Marco studied it and seemed to be taken in by its intricacy. That pleased Mertil, as much as he could be pleased, considering the situation. The more Marco focused on the symbol, the more it would be imbued with Mertil’s feelings for him.

“I thought you hated plants,” Marco commented. He held the cord between the thumb and fingers of his right hand and pulled it through with his left, as Mertil had instructed. 

‹Plants hate me,› Mertil corrected. ‹It’s a mutual antagonism.›

“So you murder the plants, make textiles? Good plan,” Marco said, sounding a bit more like his usual wry self.

‹Funny,› Mertil mused. ‹Gafinilan’s mother was a plant artist. She always said that I had great skill with plants, as long as they were already dead. She was kinder than my own mother, who accused me of killing my guide tree because my capricious nature gave it depression -- _it had root rot._ › At Marco’s raised eyebrow, Mertil admitted, ‹…I may hate plants.›

“So, what is this?” Marco asked him, handing back the length of grass. “It looks like a really long friendship bracelet for someone very crunchy-granola. Cassie would like it.”

‹Friendship bracelet? That is an interesting concept. It is not that.› Mertil wound the grass back around his second knuckles. ‹It is a… ceremonial object. A symbol.›

“Ah,” Marco said. “And did I just help with the ritual?”

‹You did,› Mertil replied.

“Cool. I’ve got something that might _not_ help, if this is the ritual I think it is,” Marco said.

‹What do you mean?› Mertil asked. ‹How would you know?›

Marco reached into the front pocket of his outer garment and pulled out a dark blue semisphere. He held Gafinilan’s _hirac delest_ out in the palm of his hand. Mertil took a deep breath. “So yeah, I needed to give this back to you. Sorry if it messes up your ritual of passage, or whatever.” 

‹You do know,› Mertil murmured with amazement. Slowly, he closed his hand over the top of Marco’s and held it there. Marco’s face reddened slightly. ‹Thank you for remembering.›

“Yeah, I probably don’t get enough credit. That’s why I have to constantly remind people how great I am,” Marco blustered, looking away. 

Mertil took the _hirac delest_ with both hands. He placed it on his workstation next to the pot Marco’s long-dead plant had come in, which Mertil had now repurposed into a data crystal container. Mertil turned back to Marco, but one stalk eye continued to stare at the _hirac delest_. 

“So, I guess that’s it. Gotta find the next name on my Twelve Steps list,” Marco said, looking reluctantly outside.

‹What does that mean?› Mertil asked.

“Ah, nothing,” Marco said. “Jake told me to find someone, but his house got blown up, so I have to comb the warzone.”

‹Are you sure this person is still alive?› 

“Yeah. He’s… pretty tough.” Marco was shifting his eyes in the way Mertil had learned was a sign of duplicity, but to Mertil just looked like appropriate caution for a two-eyed species. Either way, whatever Marco was hiding didn’t interest Mertil much. He was planning to let go of everyone he cared about; no use getting caught up on details. 

“I guess I’m gonna go,” Marco stated, his voice sounding uncertain.

‹Fight with honor,› Mertil said.

Marco laughed a single rough laugh that sounded more like a strangling sound. “There’s no honor in dying before you get a chance to grow up.”

‹If that is the case, please try not to die,› Mertil said sincerely, counter to everything he was supposed to believe. Sensing Marco’s continuing hesitation, Mertil offered, ‹You may stay here as long as you like.› 

“I know. I can’t.” Marco furrowed his brow. “Um. I’m sorry, I know this is a weird request, but can I give you a hug?”

Mertil was familiar with physical intimacy as a human farewell ritual. He didn’t hesitate; he opened his arms as he had seen on television. Marco took in a breath and threw himself into Mertil’s chest, squeezing his strong human arms around Mertil’s waist and burying his face into Mertil’s ribs. Mertil placed his hands gently on Marco’s back. He tried to remain relaxed, but he did flick the remains of his tail slightly.

“Thanks,” Marco said into Mertil’s fur.

‹For this gesture? It is not a burden,› Mertil assured him. 

“For everything,” Marco pulled away and looked at the ground again, significantly flushed.

‹I believe you have done more for me than I for you,› Mertil said. ‹I am grateful to you. And also to Aximili, who wouldn’t have accepted me without your involvement.›

“Okay, well, I guess we could keep complimenting each other, but I do have to go.” Marco pushed himself up over the ledge of Mertil’s scoop and looked back one more time. “Later… Maybe.”

‹Take care, Marco.› Mertil watched Marco stuff his hands back into his front pocket and walk purposefully into the trees.

Mertil unwound the cord from his hand again, immediately resuming his ritual while he still felt warm from Marco’s embrace. He let it hang loosely in his hands and walked back to his workstation and the _hirac delest_. Mertil had made so much progress with it out of his possession. He needed to deal with it immediately.

He commanded it to play.

_‹I am Commander Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad. I have reached the end of my life. I have served the people and my family to the best of my ability. I leave behind my mother, Ishana-Tahaylik-Sinath, and my lifelong shorm and mate Mertil-Iscar-Elmand.›_

Mertil wound the cord around his right first finger and pulled tightly. 

_‹I die, not in the glory of battle, but in the waning sunset of illness. I anticipate those who do not know me may see my final years as a shameful blight upon my record. However, I have carried out my duty, and I regret only the mistakes I have made and the damage I have caused. Know my story and understand that I lived a life of loyalty to my people and to freedom.›_

_‹I was born in the coastal settlement Naraya, eight days before my shorm. Those days must have been the loneliest of my life, for none has gone by that I have not had him by my side or longed for him to be there. I cannot recall our meeting, but he is present in my earliest memories.›_

Mertil closed his eyes and let Gafinilan’s words transport him back, for the thousandth time and the final time.

~*~

‹Gafinilan!› Mertil called into the front entrance of Gafinilan’s family scoop. Gafinilan’s mother, Ishana, had told him to stop sneaking in the back. Weeks ago, Mertil had spent the night there while no one was home and Mertil’s own mother had been frantic with worry when Gafinilan’s family arrived back from the birth of his cousin.

‹You don’t have to shout, Mertil,› Gafinilan’s father, Aranifil, scolded gently, turning down the opacity on the dome of their scoop entrance and peering up at the impatiently bouncing child. ‹Ishana has taken Gafinilan to the gardens.›

‹Uggghhh,› Mertil groaned, whipping the small point of his blade. ‹They are always at the gardens.›

‹Of course,› Aranifil said. ‹And your father is always with the fleet, and your mother is always in her laboratory. We all have our place, Mertil.›

Mertil had observed that Aranifil didn’t seem to have a place, that he rarely left their scoop. He’d asked Gafinilan, who had told him to keep his hooves in his own grass. Mertil was more persistent than Gafnilan was stubborn, though, so Gafinilan had eventually admitted his father was ill. Aranifil didn’t seem too sick to Mertil, though.

‹Yeah, and sometimes that place is useless and boring,› Mertil muttered, ignoring Gafinilan’s father’s affectionate look of disapproval. ‹Thanks, Aranifil, I am going, now!›

Before Aranifil could bid him farewell, Mertil ran off in the opposite direction, bounding as quickly as he could down the well-worn path from Gafinilan’s scoop to the large park that was shared by their community. As always, his eyes wandered up to the sky -- only two moons were faintly shining overhead, but Mertil knew a third would join them by evening. He made sure to keep at least one stalk eye focused on his destination. Mertil had a reputation for tripping people by not paying attention to the earth in front of him. As he approached the gardens, _derrishoul_ trees rose up on either side of the path. 

Mertil sighed as the path opened out into what may as well have been a maze of domestic trees and flowers. It wasn’t really a maze -- the plant artists and botanists actually had a rigorous system of organization. Mertil just didn’t have the patience to learn it. After running back and forth through three aisles of giant bulbous _gernth_ fungi that he couldn’t even see over, Mertil lost whatever small amount of patience he did have.

‹GAFINILAN!› he yelled.

Immediately, five adult heads poked up over the rows of plants in front of him, and a litany of angry grumbles mixed together in Mertil’s head. Mertil held his tail high; he couldn’t be shamed by a bunch of _botanists_. Why would anyone want to dig in the dirt all day when they could be _flying_?

He ran deeper into the gardens.

‹GAFINILAN!› he shouted again.

‹People are working here.›

‹Who taught him etiquette?›

‹Is that War-Prince Solorin’s son? I hear he’s more annoying than a cracked hoof.›

Mertil kept running. At this point, he was in the thick of the hanging _trella_ vines used for weaving industrial ropes, and he couldn’t have found his way out if he tried.

‹GAFINI -- ›

A familiar face on the same level as his own popped out of the vines in front of Mertil. ‹Quiet, dull blade! What’s wrong with you? You could at least use private thought-speak.›

Mertil exploded with joy and dropped into an unrefined challenging pose, striking playfully at Gafinilan. Gafinilan dodged easily and stepped back into the vines, which Mertil’s blade, more a spike, swiped at and notched slightly.

‹Mertil,› warned a warm voice.

Mertil looked up to see Ishana’s face part the vines, much higher up. Gafinilan’s head popped out again under his mother’s, grinning because Mertil was in trouble. Their floating heads reminded Mertil of a puppet show he’d seen once in the space port -- the characters were all just heads on sticks. Mertil laughed.

‹Gafinilan, lead Mertil out into the fields and play out some of that energy before someone _torfs_ him,› Ishana demanded, but with the fondness that made Mertil adore being an unofficial part of Gafinilan’s family.

Gafinilan pounced out from between the vines, his hooves stamping into the grass so hard, they left imprints. He reared up as a distraction and whacked Mertil in the back of the head with the fleshy part of his tail -- Gafinilan had just shed his infant blade spike and his adult blade hadn’t erupted yet. Already having his adult blade before Gafinilan was a point of pride for Mertil, who usually felt like he was running behind. Gafinilan laughed at Mertil’s offended face and galloped off toward the gardens’ exit.

Gafinilan was a bigger child, of stouter stock than Mertil -- his family originated from the north -- so his more powerful muscles gave him an advantage in the kick off. But Mertil began pursuit and quickly caught up. He passed in front of Gafinilan, lined up their bodies and slowed from a full tilt run to a playful hop. Gafinilan had to dig his hooves into the ground to stop himself. While he was skidding to a halt, Mertil swung his tail around and conked him on his forehead with his blunt tail spike. 

Mertil started laughing and dipped down into a fighting stance. Gafinilan reared up again -- always trying to be intimidating with his size advantage. They circled, exchanging some practice strikes, both already adept at blocking each other. Mertil shifted his weight left, then feinted right and got another strike in on Gafinilan’s shoulder.

‹Tag!› he yelled and ran again.

Gafinilan pursued, and they continued this style of play for hours. Eventually Mertil incorporated a storyline into their chase, to keep himself interested, as he usually did. Then, as he usually did, he used the story as an excuse for why they needed to keep going into the night.

‹It’s time for evening ritual,› Gafinilan said, bringing Mertil to a stop by gripping his wrist. 

‹But if we stop now, the Yeerks will find our moonbase,› Mertil whined.

‹We can defend the moonbase tomorrow. You do this everyday. It’s not like you won’t see me later.› Gafinilan was still holding Mertil’s wrist, not for any particular reason.

‹Yeah, but we start school next lunar cycle. We only have a few weeks left to be children,› Mertil pouted.

‹What are you talking about? My mother is teaching our peer group. We’ll be children until we join the Academy.›

‹I’m going to be dedicated to my studies. No more playing around,› Mertil said seriously.

Gafinilan snorted incredulously. ‹Of course.›

‹You’ll see,› Mertil said, slightly indignant.

‹Of course I will.› Gafinilan took advantage of Mertil’s sudden serious turn to whip him in the ear with the tip of his tail. ‹Just like you saw that coming!›

Mertil chased Gafinilan back to his scoop.

~*~

Mertil could see from his mother’s expression that she had news. He could never tell if it was good or bad with her, because sometimes good news was bad in her eyes, and vice versa. 

Mertil looked up from the data crystal on which he was composing an essay, trying to hold a dispassionate expression. ‹What is it, mother?›

‹Your genetic testing results came in,› she said, with sickeningly stressful neutrality.

‹And? I assume you opened them?› Mertil said, somewhat impertinently.

‹I’m sorry, Mertil,› she said, not sounding sorry, like she always expected this. ‹You’re not going to be able to morph. Like me.›

Mertil kept his face neutral, but he was screaming inside. His vision blurred, he was so distraught. ‹Thank you for telling me, Mother. Will you transfer the data to me so I can review it?›

‹Of course. It may be time to rethink your plans -- ›

‹Yes,› Mertil interrupted, and his mother’s expression hardened. ‹I know. I am in the middle of an assignment. I will discuss it with you later.› 

After his mother left his section of the scoop, Mertil threw his data crystal down, hoping it would shatter. He was annoyed when it didn’t. Suddenly, his breaths were shallow. He pressed his hands down on his table, panic washing over him. He felt like he was being chased, and the only natural response was to run. He walked calmly to the back entrance of his family’s scoop, engaged the screen controls to open it, and trotted up the incline out into the grass. He cantered steadily out of their immediate territory, trying to look like he just needed a snack.

When he was out of eyeshot, he broke into a run, as fast as he could, hardly aware of the direction. He couldn’t even make words in his mind, it was just wailing and disappointment, and the end of everything crashing into him. 

‹Slow down, Mertil,› Gafinilan’s strong, calm voice was in his head. Mertil wanted to ignore him, to just run off a cliff. He knew if he kept running, Gafinilan could not catch up. But he also knew Gafinilan would continue to follow him until he stopped, even if he ran into the ocean. Mertil stopped. Both his respiratory systems strained and not because he was winded from running.

Gafinilan came up from behind him. ‹Something is wrong,› he observed.

‹I’m never getting into the Academy,› Mertil blurted.

‹That’s ridiculous,› Gafinilan said. ‹What has upset you so much?›

‹I -- I got the results back from my genetic testing. I can’t morph. I’m allergic, like my mother. It’s over. I’m never going to fly.› Mertil was shaking with fury and despair and self-loathing.

Mertil watched Gafinilan with his stalk eyes, but he hardly reacted. Just the same resolute, unflinching Gafinilan. ‹Mertil, you have the highest aptitude scores in district two. You are all but already in the Academy.›

‹But I’m defective! Of course it’s something I have no control over. Everyone always said there was something wrong with me. At least now I have a gene I can point them to.› Mertil clenched his hands into fists. Tremors shook him as if he’d been thrown into a cold lake and his body temperature had bottomed out. 

Gafinilan placed his hands around Mertil’s wrists. Mertil felt how strong his grip was, how warm his hands were, and a flare of Gafinilan’s unquestioning confidence trickled into him like water. Their eyes met, and Mertil’s own cold feelings were pushed out of his body as he was filled with Gafinilan’s warmth. Gafinilan stood close to him, projecting calm and assurance, until Mertil’s breaths were regular again.

‹Just keep going,› Gafinilan urged. ‹You cannot be rejected if you don’t attempt.›

‹They won’t take me. I can’t morph,› Mertil said in shuddering thought-speak.

Gafinilan stretched his tail over their heads and touched his blade to Mertil’s. ‹Show them what you _can_ do.›

~*~

Mertil looked up from the poetry he was mentally annotating. Gafinilan was angry somewhere. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but considering it was the night before his first poetry assessment since choosing his specializations, the timing was poor. His connection to Gafinilan was important and had helped them both countless times, but it would be nice to be able to turn it off when they had to study.

Mertil tried to be proactive and focused on a particularly lovely passage of poetry, attempting to broadcast the hopeful imagery through their bond.

 _‹Stop trying to change how I feel,›_ Gafinilan snapped, sounding like an object dropped down a ventilation shaft on a ship and echoing back up.

 _‹It’s distracting,›_ Mertil attempted to respond -- the bond wasn’t perfect and Gafinilan had an easier time getting words through, probably because of Mertil’s more mercurial nature. Gafinilan usually only felt one or two things, and they filled him completely. Mertil usually felt about ten things, bouncing around inside him like an anti-gravity simulation.

Mertil tried again, _‹Are you in training with Nerefir again? You have to stop fighting with him.›_

Another hot rumble of anger punched Mertil in the chest. Mixed with his own mounting annoyance, it was hard for Mertil to keep his composure. Gafinilan didn’t respond, so Mertil tried to go back to what he was doing. It wasn’t long, however, before he heard the sound of heavy hooves pounding outside their quarters.

Boarding at the Academy was minimalistic, to say the least. They were only in their first Autumn term, so they shared a scoop complex with about sixty other _arisths_ , in small rooms that were dug out on either side of a hill, like round leaves along the stalk of a plant. There was enough room in each quarters for a single work station that was to be shared and for two cadets to stand side-by-side for sleeping, with about one body width between them. Gafinilan’s quickly-developing powerful physique meant that they had less room between the two of them -- it wasn’t like Mertil was small, either.

Of course, unlike most of the _arisths_ assigned such quarters, sharing the cramped space rarely bothered them at all.

Gafinilan engaged the dome over their scoop, hopped down, commanded it to close, and turned up the opacity. Mertil absorbed his appearance without turning away from what he was doing. Gafinilan was vibrating with barely-contained fury. Besides feeling it licking at his own emotions like fire, Mertil was unconcerned. Gafinilan didn’t take anger out on Mertil, except in spats of gruffness, but between the two of them, Mertil was actually snippier.

‹He hates me,› Gafinilan stated.

‹Yes, probably,› Mertil agreed casually. He put his work down and squeezed himself around the small space, turning to face Gafinilan. He wasn’t going to get anything done with Gafinilan like this.

‹He’s going to fail me out of combat training. Me! How am I struggling in combat training and acing Z-space energy engineering?›

‹Well,› Mertil said a bit arrogantly, ‹perhaps because I am helping you in Z-eng and you’re on your own at combat training.›

Mertil had expected that to offend Gafinilan, but he just looked thoughtful. ‹No, I’m not,› he said finally. ‹You are always with me.›

‹Well, yes, I suppose,› Mertil allowed. ‹But I can’t take you over like a Yeerk and control your insubordinate impulses. I could attempt to fill you with sunshine all day, but you still have to respect Nerefir’s authority.›

Gafinilan was obviously still troubled and went off on a rant about how the teachers shouldn’t be able to be biased against certain students. Mertil tilted his head sympathetically. He hadn’t told Gafinilan that his own combat instructor had docked points from him because every other student had completed their stealth practical by morphing, even though Mertil had completed the simulation with no penalties.

‹Gafinilan, the instructors are going to do whatever they see fit. Part of learning to be a warrior is learning to adapt to different command styles,› Mertil said, growing weary of Gafinilan’s simplistic views of right and wrong. 

It was clear to Mertil that right and wrong were subjective, even though they had always been taught the opposite was true. The big secret to doing well was interpreting what your superior judged to be “right.” Mertil wondered if Gafinilan would ever learn.

‹That may be simple to you,› Gafinilan muttered. ‹It is difficult for me to accept a command I know is wrong. And they think they are always right.›

‹I know,› Mertil said. ‹But the key is to look like you accept the command, then do what’s actually right. Make it look like an accident and be very obedient afterward. But not in lessons. In lessons, just do what they say. And be very obedient. Just stop questioning the instructors. The Academy is not real life.›

‹You are so light-hooved, Mertil,› Gafinilan insulted, but he smiled fondly at him and Mertil returned the expression.

‹Listen,› Mertil said softly. ‹We’re going to be fighter pilots. We’ll only answer to our prince. We’ll bring so much glory to our people, it won’t matter that I can’t morph and you yell at your commanders.›

Mertil traced his fingers along Gafinilan’s cheekbone, ran them lightly along his jaw, and pressed his palm against his cheek. Gafinilan closed his eyes and leaned into it, letting his breath slow. Neither of them had done this before, but it felt like they’d done it countless times. It was special, but also ordinary, like everything they shared.

~*~

Mertil looked out of the observation deck, waiting for Gafinilan’s flight training to end. He narrowed his eyes, wrinkling the top of his nose slits in frustration and toeing his hoof against the cold metal floor of the flight hangar. Gafinilan’s solo maneuvers were so unpolished, still, and it was almost assessment time. Mertil could see each hard transition from one command to the next, as if there was no flow between them. If Gafinilan tail fought like that, he’d already be apprenticing under his mother to be a plant artist. He'd gotten worse since his father died, but the instructors didn't accept that kind of excuse.

Gafinilan finally docked, ending Mertil’s existential pain. Mertil sauntered out into the hangar with all the ego afforded the top-rated flier in their generation. He accessed the flight log and noted himself down for the next several hours. The stats next to his name stated he had logged more hours than any other _aristh_ currently at the Academy. There was even a little star next to his name.

Gafinilan’s warrior mentor dismounted his plane as Mertil passed him, waiting for it to be open. ‹He’s hopeless,› he sneered at Mertil.

‹No, he’s not.› Mertil asserted, holding his tail too high for his status and flicking his tail blade lightly. Mertil shot a glare up at Gafinilan, who was about to jump out of his cockpit. ‹You’re going back out there.›

Mertil settled into the command post of the fighter and engaged the computer. He melted into the warm hum of the ship, feeling like he was made whole inside it. He tested all the equipment and signaled to the flight hub that he was about to embark. Mertil exploded out of the hangar with an immediate climbing spin that brought him well above Gafinilan, who followed him out.

Homeworld stretched out below his fighter and the moon Erathli loomed bright overhead. The second best feature of being in their final Autumn term as piloting specialists was being stationed at the Erathli Academy base. The best feature was flying.

Mertil dipped down effortlessly, and Gafinilan fell into formation. He led Gafinilan through his whole exercise again. Mertil executed each spin and dive with sublime fluidity -- he was an artist in space, and Gafinilan was his flawless shadow when they were together. They spiraled, rolled, and dove around each other like their fighters were dancing. Mertil soared with pride that they were in such perfect sync, Gafinilan responding to him without any overt communication. Gafinilan had no problem with transitions or reactions with Mertil, because Mertil didn’t. Mertil ran him through his drill over and over. He didn’t have to say anything, but he hoped Gafinilan was getting his message -- _feel this, let yourself learn it without me._

Gafinilan’s instructor’s voice came through their communications channel. _‹How are you able to get him to fly like that,_ Aristh _Mertil?›_

‹I suppose I’m just the superior instructor,› Mertil said impudently. ‹Sir.›

‹Aristh _Gafinilan, your shorm cannot accompany you on your assessment.›_

 _‹He is wrong, Gafinilan,›_ Mertil said through their empathic bond. _‹I am always with you.›_

~*~

Mertil came to consciousness and the first thing he saw was Gafinilan. It was a nice way to wake up. What wasn’t nice was realizing he was strapped to an emergency transport table, his legs and his tail restrained with force fields. He was also hit with alternating waves of sharp pains from both his back legs and worry from Gafinilan.

Mertil was _giddy._

‹Did you see that?› Mertil asked, his thought-speak ebullient, for someone in traction.

Gafinilan sighed. ‹I would ask if they pumped you full of drugs, but I’ve read the medical report and I know that you’re just like this. Of course I saw it, I was right behind you.›

‹A perfect Elfangor Maneuver! I took out at least three Bug fighters and possibly the cruiser! Wasn’t that fantastic? Did I take out the cruiser?›

‹It wasn’t _fantastic_. You destroyed your fighter and you’re _hurt_ ,› Gafinilan grumbled. ‹But yes, you took out the cruiser.›

Mertil laughed in triumph and then groaned when it elicited more pain from his legs. He could feel Gafinilan’s disapproval and concern, but his own jubilation couldn’t be dampened.

‹I tried to stop you and you didn’t listen because _you never listen_ and now you have three broken limbs and a spinal fracture and for some reason, I still feel like I should have followed you,› Gafinilan lectured. Mertil knew he felt guilty, like he always did when Mertil did something reckless.

‹Because you’ll follow me anywhere.› Mertil teased, smiling. ‹Don’t blame yourself, Gafinilan. It’s always my own fault when I’m injured.› 

Mertil reached his hand out for Gafinilan. Mertil watched him sweep the perimeter for signs of others before taking his hand and stroking Mertil’s face.

~*~

Mertil saw it happen before Gafinilan, and his body went cold. Mertil commanded his fighter to ascend to get out of range, but half his systems were down and the manual controls were unresponsive. When Gafinilan realized his engine had been burnt off, his dizzying panic hit both of them, right before Gafinilan’s ship slammed into the side of Mertil’s with a deafening rip. Mertil yelled at his computer to roll away, but their wings were linked and the lurch between them only caused the alloys to twist and scream more.

Mertil would have started saying the death ritual if he didn’t know it would horrify Gafinilan more. 

Their fighters were rolling together, as they’d done hundreds of times, but this time Mertil wasn’t in control. He tried to quiet Gafinilan’s anguish. It was too late to despair -- at least they would die together.

Alarms blared to tell him about his hull breach; Mertil silenced them. He cleared the HUD and untinted the dome of his fighter so he could see space all around him, one last time. As they fell, his dome filled with the blue planet below. He looked down at his grave, and all he could think was how beautiful it was. 

~*~

Mertil stood next to Gafinilan as his gasping, shuddering body stilled, Andalite giving way to human. Gafinilan lay on the grassy floor of their quarters, waiting for his breathing to even out and the remnants of pain to leave his nervous system. After a moment, he stood, impassively straightening his human hair and clothes.

‹Please just end this,› Mertil begged. ‹I can’t stand your suffering any longer. Be human. You are always in this morph anyway. Please.›

Gafinilan glared defiantly, a gesture that had less impact in his relatively small, delicate human body. “You want me to become permanently trapped in this form. I could not tolerate it, Mertil.”

‹Please.›

“I can’t make that choice. Not even on your behalf. Please understand,” Gafinilan said, sighing.

Mertil’s hackles prickled and shook. ‹I don’t! I can’t. You’re being selfish.›

“ _You’re_ being selfish.” Gafinilan crossed his arms like a human. This may have been the closest they had ever come to an argument.

‹Gafinilan, I’m going to be alone. We’ve never been alone.› Mertil stepped forward and pressed both hands into either side of Gafinilan’s human face. ‹Just stay with me. It doesn’t matter what you are.›

Gafinilan reached up and brushed his fingertips against Mertil’s cheek. “It does. I am an Andalite. I am going to die an Andalite.”

~*~

Gafinilan’s own account of the events was coming to a close. Mertil’s hearts were aching, but he felt stronger at the end of Gafinilan’s message than he ever had.

_‹Mertil, for everything… I have made right everything that can be made right, I have learned everything that can be learned, I have sworn not to repeat my error, and now I claim forgiveness.›_

‹You’re forgiven, Gafinilan. Please forgive me.› Mertil pulled either end of the grass cord as hard as he could, knowing the weaving technique Gafinilan’s mother taught him was too strong to break. 

_‹I, Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad, submit my final statement to the judgment of my people. My hirac delest is done. I go in peace to my death.›_

Mertil commanded the _hirac delest_ to shut down and left his scoop, reciting the meditation as his thumb worried the grass braid. The sun was high above him -- in the two hours since Marco had left, time for the morning ritual had long passed. That was fine; Mertil didn’t want to lose focus. 

Even in the day, Mertil could see the flashes of Dracon beams over the city. He knew Marco was in there, on a mission for his human prince. He knew Marco would meet his fate, whatever it was. Aximili, as well.

Mertil ducked into a small clearing in the forest near his scoop. It was peaceful and private and perfect for his needs. Mertil stood in front of a sapling and threaded the cord around its slim trunk. He repeated the mantra a final time as he tied the ceremonial knot, meditating on each fold and loop.

He studied it for a few minutes. Gafinilan had given him his life. Marco had returned it to him. Aximili had returned him to his people, his duty.

He pulled out the first part of the knot. ‹I have nothing to surrender.› He pulled out the second. ‹All which I care for is part of me.› Unlooped a loop. ‹I have nothing but freedom.› The knot was gone and all that was left was the cord, loosely tied around the tree. He pulled out the final twist and the cord fell to the ground. ‹I am unbound. I am free.›

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt really self-indulgent writing those flashback sequences, but I also loved it and I hope they're enjoyable. I didn't want Gafinilan haunting Mertil like a ghost with no real presence in the fic, and I didn't want it to be annoying that we never get to see the _hirac delest_ , either. Hope you agree!
> 
> Also as an fyi, Marco remembers the ritual of passage from when Ax explained it to him in Reconcile, Part One.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the end of the war, Prince Aximili asks Mertil for advice on his future.

‹You are staying on Earth?› Forlay asked. The hologram that displayed her face flickered, and Mertil poked at the display chip. Mertil had been working on his communication setup, and at least he wasn’t as bad at engineering as he was gardening. It wasn’t saying much, since his rig was a barely-functioning mess.

‹Yes,› Mertil said. ‹I would like to continue working with you, if you would have me. The war is over, but I believe the diplomatic opportunities here deserve attention.›

‹Of course,› Forlay agreed. In jest, she added, ‹Someone has to be there to keep my son honest.›

‹Two princes in your family, Forlay. Most mothers would be proud,› Mertil commented, hoping his light tone was coming in through the poor connection.

‹Of course I am proud,› Forlay disdained. ‹I raised two foolish sons who were unafraid to challenge military hierarchy and, against all odds, were rewarded for their service to the people. Aximili even forced a case for military transparency, which stunned my tail blade off. I am as proud of my two establishment sons as I can be.›

‹Do you think his move will mark a positive shift, now that the war is over?› 

‹I can only hope. I am mobilizing to demand we withdraw our colonies in the Yeerk systems, but it seems more likely we will establish a new one on Earth, instead,› Forlay predicted darkly.

‹It’s certainly possible.› Mertil detested the thought of Andalites settling on Earth. The best part of Earth was its current Andalite population of two, plus whomever had been assigned under Aximili. The thought of Prince Aximili still amused Mertil.

‹We are poised on a precipice. Our people no longer know what freedom from martial law feels like.› Forlay was speaking personally to Mertil, but she had taken on the tone of addressing her movement. It was very easy for her to fall into. ‹It is more important than ever to show them, now that high command doesn’t have the Yeerk Empire to use as an excuse.› 

‹Then perhaps it _is_ a good idea to promote tourism to Earth,› Mertil said distastefully. ‹A strong civilian presence would fortify our allegiance with humans as partners, and their presence may dissuade the military from establishing harmful policies. At least, openly. And the many unusual pleasures of Earth may remind our people of the joy that is missing on homeworld.›

‹Rarely do I hear someone as bitter as I am about the state of things here.› Forlay leveled what Mertil thought was a compliment.

Mertil snorted. ‹You know there is nothing for me there. I am living comfortably here. Things can only improve for me, if I can get Aximili to bring me more reliable transponders and a computer that isn’t from five centuries ago. On homeworld, I am not even a person.›

‹For a nonperson, there is much interest in your story, unless my access statistics lie. And they don’t -- there is a reason my mate is a communications scientist.›

‹I’ll be sure to consider writing my autobiography,› Mertil said, adding, ‹That is a human form of expression called sarcasm, where one says the opposite of one’s intent.›

‹I suppose that means you are not interested, but I urge you to consider it at some point. It would be well-received and could do some good for others in your position. I am sure you are something of an inspiration to them, living as boldly as you do.›

‹Because I am on Earth,› Mertil stressed. 

‹Have you attempted to enter human social spaces yet? Now that everything is out in the open and the fighting is over?› 

Mertil liked the parts of their conversations where Forlay expressed general interest in him and his life. He had inquired about her day-to-day as well, but it seemed all she did was work. She had her hooves in many different streams, between grassroots organizing, her engagements with the Electorate, management of a growing independent media empire, and continuing to publish her own work regularly. Mertil hardly slept, now that he was hooked into her news syndicate’s info stream; he couldn’t imagine how she managed.

‹I haven’t yet. I have considered it, but I don’t know what I need from the humans. I can’t eat their food, which seems to be their greatest achievement. I don’t have any of their currency, which seems to be one of their worst achievements. So, all I can think is I would go out just to be a spectacle. Which… would have appealed to me at some point in my life, I’ll admit.›

‹They probably don’t know Andalites even have tails,› Forlay commented derisively. ‹If they do, you will be a curiosity, at most. And if not, their bodies don’t look very durable -- you can probably trample them.›

‹Okay, Director of ‘Peace Front,’ they still have laws prohibiting murder here.›

‹Then that was off the record. I did not advise you to murder humans.› She smiled a rare smile. 

An alert appeared on Mertil’s holographic projection under the image of Forlay. It was an incoming communication from a channel he didn’t recognize. Odd.

‹I am receiving another comm request. I apologize for cutting this short. Please send a one-way if you have any assignments for me,› Mertil said, commanding the other missive to hold. 

‹Certainly. I must get back to work anyway. Farewell, Mertil.›

‹Fight well, Forlay.› 

Mertil answered the incoming request and was surprised to see Aximili. Mertil tried to make out the background, but all he could tell was he was on a ship.

‹Mertil? This signal is terrible.› Aximili squinted. ‹Elethir, can we clear that up on our end at all?›

‹You can’t, my setup is appalling right now. I apologize, Prince Aximili,› Mertil said, with _possibly_ facetious deference. 

‹Oh.› Aximili lifted his ears in surprise. ‹I am sure I can help with that.›

‹I am sure you can,› Mertil agreed. ‹You are uniquely suited to the job. To what do I owe the pleasure of your comm?›

‹I need advice, and I was wondering if I could stop by,› Aximili requested.

‹Oh, but my scoop is far too humble to accommodate a prince,› Mertil remarked.

‹Then I shall come as your friend, if that would suit you?› Aximili had been practicing an authoritative glare. It made Mertil want to snort with amusement that Aximili, who would still be in the Academy, if not for circumstance, would now be expected to stare down officers with decades of experience. It worried him, as well. Aximili was a bit guileless.

‹Of course, Prince, it would be an honor,› Mertil answered.

‹Good, because I have already landed near your territory, and human hikers are gathering around my ship.› 

‹Please don’t lead them to my scoop. I don’t want to become an attraction,› Mertil requested testily. 

‹I shall attempt to have my staff distract them. I will see you soon.› Aximili aborted the connection. Mertil sighed.

He couldn’t deny, he was somewhat wary of hosting a prince, even if it was just Aximili. He couldn’t be sure what Aximili would expect of him, with his new rank. Mertil wasn’t even sure if technically, Aximili was _his_ prince. He had been presumed dead, not decommissioned. Was he still military, or did being a _vecol_ legally strip him of his status? If that was the case, he would have appreciated being contacted for a severance ritual. They _were_ Andalites, after all.

Mertil scanned his scoop to see if anything needed to be sorted before Aximili arrived. He had his television on the news, muted with captions, because he’d been busy. Gafinilan had always stayed on top of Earth news, but it was Mertil’s opinion that only since the end of the war had anything of any import been reported. Not that mainstream Andalite news servers were any more honest -- they just feigned substance better. Both planets’ media were propaganda machines, above all. It was something he found comfortingly familiar about Earth, in an insidious way.

Mertil didn’t see anything that could be improved about the comfort of his home, so he absently rearranged the items on his work station while he waited. He put his scattered data crystals back into Marco’s plant pot, adjusted the arrangement of his transponders and the wires that hooked them into his slapdash monstrosity of the offspring of an Andalite and human computer, and lightly scooted Gafinilan’s _hirac delest_ , unlistened to since Mertil’s ritual of passage, to the back corner of his desk.

Mertil took out a data crystal and projected its contents through the holographic emitter. He attempted to look busy, but really was focused more on the television, which had segued into an interview with Marco and Aximili’s friend Cassie. She was speaking seriously about the negotiations that were underway to provide the Hork-Bajir with a permanent settlement. 

Her face was stony and solemn, and she kept looking down at notes of plans and shuffling them nervously. She certainly wasn’t as good at “entertaining” as Marco. But as much as Mertil cared for Marco, he found Cassie far less insipid. Marco’s repackaging of their efforts for public consumption were mostly oversimplifications and half-truths meant to make what was horrifying palatable. It felt very Andalite, but with Marco’s personal brand of annoying as a shiny layer of varnish.

Mertil was gratified that at least Cassie seemed to be doing good work, since Marco seemed more concerned with self-promotion and spin. Their Prince Jake was mostly only caught by the media by accident. And Aximili seemed bogged down in endless fleet security briefings, as far as Mertil could tell. Aximili’s work was usually portrayed on Earth media in one sentence soundbytes. That was a contrast to mainstream Andalite media, which was covering his recent appointment and the events from the Earth theater with endless identical, ponderous thinkpieces that still somehow said nothing.

He hoped that Aximili would give him some useful information on the record, so he could actually write something significant about the fleet’s youngest Prince and whatever he was being allowed to do. Or possibly being manipulated into doing.

Mertil was grateful when he heard Aximili’s hooves outside his scoop, pounding the earth with rapidity borne either of the fear of pursuit or the boredom of being cooped up on a small ship for weeks.

‹Welcome, Prince Aximili, would you like to join me?› Mertil asked.

‹Actually, I was hoping we could have a run,› Aximili requested wearily. ‹I have had three debriefings today. I tried to complain to Marco about it, and his only response was ‘L O L debriefings.’ I haven’t had real grass under my hooves in days, so I appreciate this opportunity.›

Mertil hopped up out of his scoop to meet his young friend. Aximili looked a bit heavy with the weight of responsibility, but otherwise, the months since Mertil had seen him hadn’t changed him outwardly. Mertil had been slightly worried that Aximili’s promotion might cause him to regress a bit on his position on _vecols_ ; Mertil had no intention of lowering his tail to anything approaching an “acceptable” level, and he was pleased Aximili didn’t acknowledge it. 

Mertil ran in the opposite direction from which Aximili had come -- if there were humans following the only famous Andalite on Earth, he hoped to avoid them. Aximili kept pace and for several minutes, they both just enjoyed the grass and each other’s presence. 

‹I was just speaking to your mother, Prince Aximili,› Mertil said, taking it upon himself to start the conversation.

‹I appreciate your respect in front of my subordinates, but you don’t have to call me ‘prince.’› Aximili paused, then said, wistfully, ‹That is a weird thing to say.›

‹You think I would eschew protocol?› Mertil asked sardonically.

‹I _know_ you would,› Aximili said. ‹I am still getting used to command. It is not what I expected.›

‹You aren’t a fan of _arisths_ jumping out of your way in the corridors?› Mertil joked.

‹I am not assigned any _arisths_ ; I have a staff of six warriors. They are certainly not jumping out of my way, but they are obedient enough. They at least have the courtesy to only talk about me privately.› Aximili sounded slightly bitter and reminded Mertil, possibly for the first time, of his mother.

‹Is it not all you thought it would be?› Mertil asked.

‹I did not think of it. I mean, obviously, when I was still in the Academy, all I wanted was to surpass Elfangor, but that was just childish dreaming. For the last year, I barely expected to escape death or court-martial.› Aximili looked a bit shaken, and Mertil was surprised at his candor. He supposed ending a galactic war could make even Aximili introspective.

They continued walking through the grassy valleys along the canyon, more wary of humans, it seemed, than when their presence on Earth was a secret. Mertil hoped it didn’t make the news that there were Andalites in Rattlesnake Canyon. He didn’t want to have to move.

‹You said you spoke with my mother? I spoke with her yesterday,› Aximili commented. 

‹Excuse this personal judgment, but I am surprised,› Mertil said. 

‹Yes?› Aximili said, ‹We have spoken more in the last month than we ever have. It is easier. She appreciates that I am not so naive anymore.›

‹Is that gratifying?› Mertil asked.

‹Perhaps. I always felt like I was not the son she wanted, and I was not Elfangor, so I had no place in her life.›

‹That has changed?›

‹I believe she is relieved I am alive.›

Aximili’s words felt familiar to Mertil. He had shared those feelings for most of his life. Mertil briefly entertained the thought that their respective families would probably have been more satisfied if they switched places. He did know one thing -- his own family was not relieved he was alive. 

‹Beyond that, you have created a lot of work for her, and you know how she likes to stay busy,› Mertil added. ‹I’m sure that’s a notch in your favor.› 

Mertil felt somewhat awkward maneuvering between Aximili and his mother, who was essentially Mertil’s boss. But if anything, Mertil was responsive to and adept at navigating turbulence. Except the one time he had literally crashed and burned, but that was a statistical outlier.

‹I take it your work is going well?› Aximili asked. Mertil was starting to get nervous about how much small talk was happening, since he knew Aximili hadn’t stopped by just to catch up. They had stalled in Mertil’s favorite grazing area, and without the rush that came from running, possibilities had started to bounce around in Mertil’s head as to what this could be about.

‹Yes, I should say so,› Mertil replied. ‹As you know, I am still the only Andalite making non-military reports from Earth. My work is getting a lot of attention, even outside the usual circles.› He added pointedly, ‹Of course, it’s a bit difficult to gather information when all my contacts are unreachable.›

‹I am sure you manage,› Aximili said, casting a guarded look at Mertil.

‹Yes, especially since I have your comm link now.› Mertil smiled.

‹I will change it if you abuse it,› Aximili warned. ‹You know that I cannot openly be your source, considering your allegiances.›

‹My allegiance is to the people, Prince. And I have no intention of abusing our friendship,› Mertil said seriously. ‹You said you needed advice?›

‹Yes,› Aximili said. He hesitated, clearly focusing on how he wanted to present his question. ‹It is true that you never had to choose between your personal and professional lives, is it not?›

Mertil’s ears perked and he tilted his head toward Aximili. ‹Yes, the trajectory of my life was such that the two were… entwined, if you will.› Aximili had created a bald patch on the ground and was digging a hole with the tip of his hoof. Mertil had an impulse to scold him and pushed it down. ‹I take it you are asking me about Marco?›

‹I apologize for troubling you with this matter,› Aximili said, looking down at his hoof and attempting to stamp the ground flat again.

Mertil sighed. ‹I am used to the two of you. Allow me to prepare myself.› Aximili looked up to the sky, impatient with Mertil’s dramatics. The expression reminded Mertil strikingly of Marco. It was almost cute. ‹What is the situation?›

‹It is probably obvious. I am appointed liaison to Earth, which is an ideal position, and there is much that needs to be done here. But...› Aximili hesitated, calculating again. ‹Eventually, I will be summoned back to the fleet. I could stall, but I don’t think I will be permanently stationed here. I am not sure what I want.›

‹Well,› Mertil said, ‹what you want doesn’t matter, _Prince_. You will, of course, do your duty.›

‹Of course,› Aximili said, his eye stalks drooping. 

‹How does Marco feel about this?› Mertil asked.

There was more shifting of hooves. If Mertil had always been light-hooved, at least in this moment, Aximili could be blown away by a sharp wind. 

‹He is constantly in press conferences or interviews, and I am always either receiving or composing reports. We have done panels and negotiations together, but of course, we must remain professional in public. We communicate with annoying, primitive human text messaging, but it is impossible to discuss anything in that manner.› Aximili added, ‹Marco and I have never been skilled at communicating about ‘us.’›

‹It sounds like you are both avoiding it,› Mertil pointed out. ‹Marco must know you will not be able to stay on Earth.›

‹Perhaps. Perhaps I wish I could. I believe I understand my brother more than I ever have,› Aximili admitted.

‹Elfangor still did his duty,› Mertil said, feeling irrationally defensive. 

‹He had no choice.›

‹What would you choose, if you did have a choice? Would you choose to live with the humans? Become one of them, like he did? Abandon your people and your duty?› 

‹No,› Aximili said quickly. ‹I only mean that before living among the humans, I didn’t question our ways. Now I am a prince, but I feel more conflicted about my duty and what is right than ever. You must understand that better than anyone. Are you not choosing to stay here?›

‹It is not about me, Aximili. Your duty is clear. Mine is… fluid,› Mertil said.

‹Yes, but that is why I am asking you.›

‹You are asking me because you think I will give you permission to do something reckless and possibly dishonorable. I wonder why it is you think that I would?› Mertil asked pointedly. Aximili looked a bit guilty. ‹I am still an Andalite, _Prince_.›

‹Yes, Mertil, I apologize for implying you are dishonorable. I… I am of the strong opinion the opposite is true.› Mertil perked his ears, fairly surprised at that. Aximili continued, ‹Let me be clear -- I am asking you because you _are_ an Andalite, and yet you have eschewed the absolutism we have been taught was objectively correct.›

‹Aximili, you need to pay more attention to your reports instead of pondering such questions of ethics,› Mertil teased. ‹But I am moved you have come to view me so highly.› 

‹Yes, well. Maybe I _am_ my mother’s son.› Aximili shot a sharp glance at Mertil. ‹Do not tell her I said that.›

‹An order from my prince?› Mertil asked lightly.

‹Absolutely.› Aximili smiled.

‹If you have adopted humans as your second people, if you will, I believe your duty to your current position is even stronger,› Mertil said. ‹It is very important that Earth has strong representation in the military. You care about humans more than any other Andalite. No one could be a better advocate for them.›

‹I suppose you are right,› Aximili said.

‹And to be frank, what is left here? Your allies have fractured. I am sure you still have Marco, and your friend Cassie seems to be a very fine human, but you no longer have your people on Earth. Not as one.› Aximili exhaled deeply and his tail dropped by several degrees. ‹I am sorry,› Mertil said.

‹You only tell me what I know. Thank you, Mertil. This is what I needed.›

‹This was not actually about Marco, but you do need to talk to him,› Mertil advised.

‹Yes,› Aximili said, ‹I know.›

‹What do you think will happen?› 

‹I honestly cannot guess,› Aximili ventured. ‹Marco and I have very different roles right now. Well. We are both presenting the events and our current situation to our respective peoples and negotiating the path forward. Perhaps not so different.›

‹You give him a lot of credit,› Mertil said, with a touch of scorn.

‹I do not underestimate Marco,› Aximili said. ‹His approach is carefully calculated, as always. Both to maximize his own personal gain and to keep the humans from panicking. They were invaded, thousands were enslaved, and an entire city was destroyed. Someone has to convince them that was ‘no big deal.’›

‹You have a point,› Mertil conceded.

‹I believe I know him better than most.› Aximili looked down at the large patch of grass he had destroyed over the course of their conversation. Any Andalite child would have known better. He brushed his hoof over the edge as if he could spread the grass back out. ‹But I do not know how he will react to my inevitable departure.›

‹There are practical reasons to discourage this sort of involvement with other species,› Mertil said. ‹It is not just our charming Andalite superiority.›

Aximili glared at him. ‹Forgive me for making poor personal decisions in extreme circumstances.›

‹Nice sarcasm,› Mertil commented.

‹Logistically, I suppose it wouldn’t be much different from a warrior whose mate is stationed on homeworld. It is difficult, but common,› Aximili mused.

‹Do you usually imply Marco is your mate?› Mertil was slightly mortified and suddenly more sympathetic. He realized he hadn’t been taking them seriously enough. They were still children to Mertil, but they had been through more together than anyone should have to go through. And after all, at their age, he and Gafinilan had been bonded too.

Aximili winced, possibly wishing he’d imparted that sentiment differently. ‹It has been a very intense year. Our relationship progressed much more quickly than a typical relationship.›

Mertil, for the first time in months, longed for his tail, so he could touch blades with Aximili in reassurance. ‹I hope this works out to your satisfaction. I care for you both, and I want you to be happy.›

Aximili focused all four eyes on Mertil. ‹Thank you. It is mutual. Let’s start walking back. I have one more thing to discuss.›

They trotted back toward Mertil’s scoop, the pleasant effects of running shaking off the awkward cloud floating around them. Mertil had always been told he was somewhat sensitive, and even he didn’t like having these kinds of discussions.

‹When I am summoned back to homeworld, would you like to accompany me?› Aximili asked.

Mertil slowed almost to a stop and had to shake himself out. ‹There are so many reasons the answer to that question is ‘no.’ Do you need me to list them?›

‹I am just giving you the opportunity. If there is little left for me here, there is even less for you.›

‹Maybe I’m also having an affair with a human,› Mertil joked, rather inappropriately.

It was Aximili’s turn to stop, and the fur that ran down his spine bristled from his neck to his tail. Mertil laughed and picked up his pace, trotting ahead.

‹Your jokes are in even poorer taste than Marco’s,› Aximili admonished, running to catch up.

‹That’s an achievement I should commemorate,› Mertil said. ‹But no, you are wrong; I have freedom here that I would not have on homeworld. It’s worth a lot.›

‹I am sure my mother could do something,› Aximili muttered.

‹You give Forlay a lot of credit, for a wayward son,› Mertil said. ‹She _is_ concerned about the rights of _vecols_. You know she would rewrite society if she could -- ›

‹She tries,› Aximili scoffed.

‹ -- but the fact is, if I tried to live on homeworld and did the things I do here, she would have to _protect_ me. I can’t live like that. I can do more good on Earth.›

‹If you change your mind, I will let you fly my ship,› Aximili said, in a voice that felt like someone dangling meat in front of a predator.

Mertil stared at him. It took effort to brush off the fact that Aximili’s casual offer had made his hearts almost stop. ‹Free advice, Prince Aximili, don’t ever let a fighter pilot fly your ship. We have poor judgment.› 

They stopped in front of Mertil’s scoop, where there were, thankfully, no signs of curious humans. 

Mertil added, ‹I also doubt your helmsman would be pleased with a _vecol_ taking over, and I am certain you don’t need the controversy. I am not sure I even thank you for the offer, but I appreciate what you’re trying to do.›

Aximili looked thoughtful then pawed the ground with his hoof. ‹I suppose that is it, then. I will get your communications systems, and I will forward the contact information of some human military officials who run with their mouths,› Aximili said.

Mertil cringed. ‹Is that a saying? It is an unpleasant one. But thank you. That is more than I expected.›

‹Thank you for the walk -- I rarely get the chance to ‘hang out’ anymore,› Aximili said, his thought-speak brimming with sincerity.

‹Feel free to contact me anytime. We can catch up on _Friends_. Although this season seems to be all about Rachel’s pregnancy, and it’s very bizarre and slightly disturbing.›

Aximili made a horrified face. Mertil swept the area for danger before looking, confused, back at Aximili, who croaked, ‹Rachel is pregnant?›

‹I am sorry if that’s a spoiler,› said Mertil, amused.

‹Do you have the recordings?› Aximili asked, an edge of desperation in his speech.

‹Yes?› 

‹May we catch up?› Aximili’s hopeful enthusiasm was a sharp contrast to the young prince’s former pensive mood.

‹Don’t you need to get back to your ship?›

‹Let them deal with humans for a while, I just want to see if Joey and Chandler are together again,› Aximili said ruefully.

‹Alright, but I think you will be disappointed.›


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco invites Mertil on a coffee date to catch him up on his life after the war. Mertil draws more attention in public than Marco.

Mertil looked up at the sign, nervously. “Beans and Leaves.” He tried to ignore the human eyes that had been piercing needles through him since he stepped hoof into the city. He had collected a small entourage of gawkers who were trying to act casual across the street but had been following him for half an hour. Mertil wasn’t the only Andalite in this town -- why bother him? He brushed the fur on his flank down nervously. Why had Marco invited him out in public?

“Hey! Mertil!” Mertil pointed a stalk eye at the arrangement of tall tables and high stools on the left side of the building. A small human was waving at him. Mertil hardly recognized Marco with his hair pulled back, dark glasses on, and wearing significantly more clothing than Mertil was used to.

Mertil walked carefully to where Marco was seated, surprised the tables were at an appropriate level to rest his hands on. Over Marco's shoulder stood two other Andalites. Their table was covered in empty plates and cups -- they had clearly been partaking in the pleasures of their human morphs. But now they were back in their natural bodies. Mertil squinted. Under the table, their hooves were crushing a few sprigs of _illsipar_.

‹Hello, Marco. This cafe has _illsipar_ ,› Mertil observed with surprise and then felt a bit obvious. 

Marco pulled his dark glasses down his nose to peer over them at Mertil. “Yeah, it’s the new thing, businesses catering to our new Andalite tourism industry. And since Santa Barbara pretty much had to be rebuilt from the ground up, you could say we’re on the cutting edge.” Marco leaned back and took a sip of his frothy brown drink. “Apparently there’s a bill to regulate _illsipar_ in state congress or something, but I don’t think it’ll pass. Too much pressure from the Tourism Board.”

‹Fascinating,› Mertil said. ‹Are you in disguise?›

Marco barked out a laugh. “Do you _know_ how famous I am? I can’t just go around letting people see my whole gorgeous face. We’d get mobbed.”

‹Then why are we in public in the first place?› Mertil asked, trying not to seem uneasy.

Marco leaned forward, putting his elbows down on the table, and pulled his glasses up to rest on top of his head. “Because, the paparazzi might catch a few shots and the headlines will say -- ‘ _Marco, spotted on the town with handsome Andalite -- who is this mysterious alien_?’ And that’s the kind of attention that gets more talk shows calling my agent.” Marco blinked his eyes rapidly in what Mertil assumed was an awkward human attempt at being charming.

Mertil made a disgusted sound. ‹Don’t make me a talking point on one of your interviews. Also, I regret letting Aximili tell you that I used to be considered attractive.›

A human wearing a brown apron walked up beside their table and greeted Mertil with a polite head tilt. “Good afternoon, could I get you some _illsipar_?”

‹No, thank you.› Mertil said wryly, ‹It makes me paranoid.›

The human server lifted a brow. Marco said, flatly, “You’re kidding.”

‹I am,› Mertil said with amusement as both Marco and the server seemed to deflate. ‹I don’t favor it, though, thank you.›

“Can I get another large double fudge frappe? Three squirts of caramel? Thanks,” Marco said.

“Yes, of course,” the server said, scribbling on a small pad of paper. He glanced casually up over the pad, then his eyes locked on Marco and grew wide. Marco winked and the server fumbled to put his pad away and practically ran back inside.

Marco grinned at Mertil. “Isn’t that cool?”

The worst thing was, as much as Mertil found it annoying now, he knew being in that position _did_ feel cool. Mertil had been a bit intolerable himself after a few service awards. Mertil sighed. ‹It is pretty cool.› 

Marco sucked his straw and kicked his feet under the table. “So hey, thanks for coming, I know you’re busy hiding out in the woods and all. Nice of you to make time for little old me.”

‹I _am_ busy,› Mertil said. ‹And although I suspect you are patronizing me, it is nice to see you. You seem well.›

“Yeah.” Marco said, and his eyes dropped away from Mertil. “I am pretty good at ‘seeming’ well, huh?”

Before Mertil could inquire at Marco’s meaning, he noticed both the Andalites behind Marco were pointing their stalk eyes at him. Mertil sighed. The other Andalites carried themselves like warriors, though Mertil could tell from the posture of their tails and the set of their hooves, they weren’t particularly high-ranking. They were young, probably only out of the Academy for a single Andalite year, at most. Mertil leveled his gaze at the Andalite who was facing him. 

‹Is there a problem?› Mertil said, in a low tone, but public thought-speak. Marco lifted a brow and looked over his shoulder conspicuously.

The Andalite Mertil was now making main eye contact with assumed a more hostile posture. ‹Obviously, the problem is we are on shore leave and are subjected to a gratuitous display of a _vecol_ flaunting his deformity.›

Mertil swished what was left of his tail defiantly. ‹I am Mertil-Iscar-Elmand, Earth correspondent for Peace Faction. Do you need me to produce my credentials?› Mertil said disdainfully. ‹Also, I would like to remind you that we are not on homeworld, and protocol requires you to respect the customs of the people here. Humans do not look kindly on such attitudes.›

“So fuck off,” Marco added.

The Andalite narrowed his eyes, clearly offended that Mertil was so brazen and unashamed. Mertil could see them conferring with each other. On homeworld, either of them would be within right to challenge him to a fight, which would either result in his death or him being forced to run in shame. On Earth, in public? Mertil knew the diplomatic risk was too high, especially for low-ranking warriors.

The Andalites stepped away from their table, moving toward the street, as if to leave. As they were passing, the one Mertil had confronted flicked his tail toward Mertil. Mertil dodged with little effort -- it had been a threat, not an actual strike. But Marco was out of his seat.

“Hey, you have a problem? Because I can give you a _real_ problem,” Marco growled.

‹The _vecol_ has a human to fight his battles for him, how amusing,› the Andalite sneered.

‹It’s not, actually,› Mertil said coldly. ‹Marco, if you respect me at all, you will sit back down.› 

Marco grit his teeth but leveraged his way back up to his seat. He cast a burning scowl at the Andalite who had struck at Mertil. That Andalite started laughing.

‹Are you this _vecol_ ’s pet, small human?›

“I’ll make you my pet,” Marco spat back. The Andalite laughed harder. Marco looked back at Mertil, his eyes blazing, and put a fist on the table. 

‹You dishonor yourselves,› Mertil said, with measured, calm contempt. ‹You issue empty challenges with no intent of action. You do not identify yourselves because you fear recourse. You are cowards lowlier than worms. Please leave before the humans call Earth authorities, and you embarrass your prince. You are already embarrassing _me_ , especially since surely _you recognize my human friend_. Already, this pathetic confrontation may wind up on Earth media.›

Both Andalites took a closer look at Marco, who was fuming, and flashes of recognition swept their faces. The Animorphs were famous, even on the Andalite homeworld, and Marco was the most visible of their human members. It wasn’t surprising they hadn’t recognized him yet -- humans were difficult to tell apart -- but they got it, with Mertil’s help. Mertil could see the two warriors conferring in private thought-speak again, before the one who hadn’t spoken yet stepped forward and addressed Marco. He had only spared Mertil a glance with a single stalk eye so far.

‹You are one of the morphing human warriors,› he said.

“Yeah, I am, and I believe my friend asked you to leave,” Marco said, squirming in his seat with barely-contained fury.

‹You must not understand the disgraceful implications of your current association,› the less-hostile Andalite said. 

“I understand plenty,” Marco said. “I understand that if you wind up on the news, especially if you force me to escalate this, that it’ll be a big problem for whoever your prince is. You think Andalite princes don’t watch Earth TV?”

The Andalite who would only acknowledge Marco, who probably had seniority over the more belligerent Andalite, snorted in annoyance. He thought-spoke privately to his companion one more time, before they both stamped off down the street.

Mertil turned back toward Marco, sighing heavily. Marco, now that the confrontation was over, was shaking. He ran his unsteady fingers through his hair and cast an apologetic look at Mertil. Before he could say anything, the cafe employee was back, Marco’s drink in his own trembling hand.

“I -- uh -- that -- I’m sorry you had such an experience at our establishment. This is on the house,” the server stammered. He turned to Mertil but didn’t look up from his shaking notepad. “Are -- are you sure you wouldn’t like anything? Free of charge. Besides _illsipar_ , we have a menu of food, desserts, and hot or iced beverages for you to enjoy in human morph.”

‹I don’t require anything, thank you,› Mertil said.

“Did you -- did you say you were an Andalite reporter?” the server asked, flushing.

‹Yes.›

“Please don’t give us a bad review!” Horrified at his own brash request, the server shoved his hands in his apron pockets, and shuffled back into the cafe.

‹This is going so well,› Mertil remarked dryly.

“I’m really sorry,” Marco croaked. “I guess I should have known not to bring you to a place other Andalites might be. You can’t expect them to just be decent.”

‹This experience has at least reinforced my decision to stay on Earth,› Mertil said sardonically. He then tilted his head to Marco. ‹You almost name-dropped Aximili.›

Marco buried his face in his hands. “I know, that was lame. Like I need my… ugh, whatever.”

‹Is everything alright?› Mertil asked.

Marco grabbed his frappe and took a long sip through the straw. He pulled the straw out and licked the thick white cream off the end, then stabbed at the drink to get more cream. He started chewing on the end of the straw. Mertil looked away, no longer able to tolerate the eating acrobatics and seeing the inside of Marco’s mouth.

“No, it’s not alright,” Marco said finally. “He’s being called back to your homeworld in a month.”

‹And what does that mean for you?› Mertil almost couldn’t believe how casually he spoke of such things now. Moreso, he was even unhappy for his friends and hoped they could find a solution. Clearly, the Earth atmosphere was slowly suffocating Mertil’s brain.

“I have no idea,” Marco said, putting his elbows down on the table to hold his chin in his hands. “Ax thinks we can work something out, but I just don’t know if I’m the kind of person who can do the long distance thing.”

‹So, you survived a war together, but you don’t think you can handle being stationed in different locations some of the time?› Mertil scoffed.

Marco’s voice escalated in pitch. “It’s not like he’s getting relocated to San Francisco; he’s going to be spending at least half his time eighty light years away.”

‹It’s actually eighty-two point three four light years away,› Mertil corrected.

“Thanks, you know, I was honestly okay with eighty, but that extra two point three four, that’s gonna do it, that’s too far.” Marco put his face in his hands again and peered at Mertil from between his fingers. “It already sucks. Ax stayed at my place for a few days last week, and like -- _I’ve_ barely stayed at my place, you know? And I had a couple gigs to go to, and you know what I thought? I thought, ‘wow, it’ll be nice to come home to him.’” Marco laughed mirthlessly and closed his fingers over his eyes. “And now we’ve talked about it, and I just feel like someone took a melon baller to my guts.”

Mertil lowered his ears and stalk eyes sympathetically, hoping Marco was familiar enough with Andalites by this point to recognize his gestures. ‹I am not saying it isn’t difficult, but it is possible to maintain your relationship, if you want to. It’s common, among Andalites, considering how much of our population is non-civilian.›

“Yeah, that’s Andalites. You guys aren’t exactly passionate people,” Marco sneered. “Anyway, we’re already doing a bad job sustaining things, and we’re still on the same planet. I just wish our trajectories weren’t so different.” 

‹Aximili doesn’t think your trajectories are that different,› Mertil commented.

“Did he talk to you about this?” Marco lifted his head up to squint at Mertil.

‹Yes. For some reason, both of you seem to think I have the answers to your private difficulties.›

“Uh, well, it’s kind of obvious why,” Marco deadpanned.

‹Is it? Don’t you have friends you can talk to about this?› 

“Are you not my friend, Mertil?” Marco forced a smile. “Also, what friends do you think I can talk to? Jake is totally checked out of his life. Last time I texted him, it took him a week to text back ‘OK,’ and by then I’d already done the panel I was trying to ask him about. I guess Cassie’s good at this stuff but… yeah, no. And Ax? _His_ best friend hasn’t been seen in months.”

‹Does that really answer ‘why me’?› Mertil pressed.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’re a good listener?” Marco was being sarcastic.

Mertil matched his tone. ‹No, actually, the running commentary and obvious disapproval is usually a deterrent.›

“Well, obviously, Jake and Cassie _know,_ but they're not, y’know, like me. Rachel… might've been. She _was_ Xena. Maybe Tobias too, I dunno. Either way, they’re both gone. I'm sure if I could get Jake to wake up, he'd pretend to care. Cassie would actually care, but it's not like she gets it,” Marco babbled, slightly incoherently.

‹I fail to see how I am ‘like you’ in this case. I am not interested in aliens, if that is what you mean.›

“No, no. I mean. Well, you're gay, I guess?”

‹I see. Your human social stigmas.›

“Like Andalites don't have them.” Marco rolled his eyes, and by now Mertil was used to it.

‹Gafinilan and I had what would have been considered a very respectable relationship, in Andalite society,› Mertil said, loftily. 

“Well, _good for you_ , it doesn’t change the fact that you’re _into dudes_.” Marco slurped his thick, runny drink loudly. Mertil wrinkled the top of his nose slits at him. 

‹I am only pointing out that I didn’t face any hardship due to our genders being aligned. It is not an equivalent experience.›

“Yeah, because you didn’t _just get harassed_. You have no idea what oppression feels like.” Mertil couldn’t remember the last thing Marco said that wasn’t facetious. It could have been a personal record, which, for Marco, was saying a lot. Marco leveled his gaze at Mertil, one eyebrow raised. “It's not that hard to understand why I want to talk to my gay Andalite friend about my gay Andalite problems.”

‹Charming. All I am saying is gender is not an issue on homeworld. Well, it’s actually a huge issue but not in this way. If you moved to homeworld, lived as an Andalite, and grew a sense of decency, your relationship with Aximili wouldn't turn a stalk eye.›

“It's like you don't even know me. Decency. Come on.” But Mertil could see the cogs turning behind Marco’s eyes. The fantasy Mertil had laid out was distracting. Finally, Marco got back on topic. “What did Ax say to you?”

‹Is it appropriate to share such things in human culture? In my culture, sharing that information would be considered a deceitful betrayal.›

“Jesus, Mertil, can’t you see I’m twisting in the wind here?” Marco’s voice cracked. “Give me _something_. This feels so awful, and the worst thing is I know when he’s close because _he’s_ sad about it too, and it just _sucks_.”

Mertil narrowed his eyes. ‹What do you mean, you know when he’s close?›

Marco groaned. “I guess I always meant to talk to you about it, because you and Gaf were actually good at it, but I felt like it was awkward to bring up.”

‹You’re saying you and Aximili share an empathic bond? That’s impossible.›

“Why, because I’m an alien? Maybe it’s the morphing tech, I dunno.” Marco shrugged. “We’ve only been able to talk through it a couple times. Mostly it’s just annoying.”

Mertil was shocked, but he judged that Marco had no reason to lie about being bonded with Aximili. It was possible, Mertil reasoned. In normal circumstances, empathic bonds formed over years of deep friendship. In wartime, more fragile, volatile connections could happen in less time. Mertil already felt sympathetic towards them, but this was something different. 

‹Yes. It was, at first,› Mertil said at last, wistful. 

“Sorry,” Marco said quickly. “I know it’s probably painful.”

‹It’s nice to remember, actually,› Mertil said. ‹It is painful but also welcome.›

“So, that ritual really works, huh?” Marco said.

‹Do you think we do them because they are fun?› Mertil asked, wryly. 

“No, I think you do them because Andalites aren’t fun,” Marco said. “Maybe I should try it.”

‹I would say I don’t think it would work for a human, but I don’t know anything about the human mental capacity, if you are able to share a bond with an Andalite. You do have to be ready to let go of your emotional entanglements, and you are not.›

“I’m ready to not feel this way anymore,” Marco muttered.

‹There are many ways to accomplish that,› Mertil said. He studied Marco’s face and considered if Aximili wouldn’t want him to divulge anything that was said. ‹Aximili came to me over a month ago. He was very conflicted about his responsibilities. He shared your regrets that you haven’t made enough time for each other and hoped to find an amenable solution.›

“What do you mean, he was conflicted about his responsibilities?” Marco asked.

‹He expressed a wish to remain on Earth that was inconsistent with his duty as prince.›

“Like, he wanted to quit?” Marco’s face was twisted in confusion. “This is all he ever wanted.”

‹He did not truly wish to abdicate his position. He was confused because of his allegiance to the Animorphs and to a lesser extent, humanity.›

“And he asked what you thought?”

‹Yes,› Mertil said.

“And what did you say?”

‹I said that he would do more good for humans in his current position.› 

Marco looked down and away. “So he’s leaving and it’s your fault?”

‹Hardly, but if it makes you feel better to blame me, you are welcome to. Like you said, he wants to be a prince. He was just unprepared for it to happen so soon. I encouraged him to do his duty because he would come to regret any other course of action,› Mertil explained.

“Fucking Andalites,” Marco said in a quavering voice. “You always think you know best, with your stupid duty and honor. Why are you like that? Even you? I just watched you get threatened for no reason over some stupid honor thing, but you still think Ax is better off with them?”

‹I will remind you, Aximili is their superior. Having someone like him in command is important right now,› Mertil said carefully. ‹I gave him advice that was not about me; it was about what was best for him. I gave him the advice any Andalite would give him.›

“You’re not _any Andalite_ , Mertil. If he went to you for advice, he wanted something he couldn’t get from _any Andalite_.” Marco, again, clenched his fists on top of the table.

‹I would have given him the same answer if I was a _vecol_ or not and regardless of any feelings I have for our people. I am sorry it is not what you want to hear,› Mertil said, placing his hands gently on the table.

“I was your friend first,” Marco muttered.

‹I believe you are angry, so I won’t criticize that statement.›

“Thanks,” Marco said weakly. He rubbed the back of his neck and sucked on his long-empty drink before pushing away his two cups. “You’re hard to argue with.”

‹I have been told that all my life. Gafinilan and I never fought because it was over before it started, and that frustrated him.›

“That sounds about right. It’s weird to fight with that empathy thing, anyway.” Marco stood, took his wallet out of his back pocket, and put a fifty dollar bill under one of his empty cups. “You wanna walk?”

‹Absolutely,› Mertil said. 

Marco led Mertil around the town. Mertil had lived in or near it for four years, but it was his first time really seeing it except when he needed to see the wreckage of the Yeerk pool himself. Mertil was shocked at how little evidence of the destruction remained. Humans were a more resilient and capable species than Andalites gave them credit for. 

Marco acted as tour guide, but he wasn’t a very good one. All his points of reference were something like “this is where my school used to be, but they’re just building an adjunct building onto the other school across town, now” and “this is where the McDonald’s was before we blew it up from underground -- I guess it’s a twenty-four hour fitness place now?” He didn’t seem to know any of the history of the place he’d lived his whole life. Mertil didn’t know why he was surprised.

“Yeah, this is where the 7-Eleven I used to do all my grocery shopping was…” 

Mertil lost focus on Marco’s mundane explanations because he noticed another Andalite staring at him. He was only pointing his stalk eye at her, and she was doing the same but had been doing so intently for several minutes. She was standing with a large male Andalite with very striking markings. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Marco noticed he wasn’t listening anymore.

‹I want to leave,› Mertil said privately.

“What? Okay.” Marco looked around and spotted the pair of Andalites across the street. “Oh. Yeah, let’s walk.”

Marco started off in the opposite direction of the Andalites at a brisk pace. Mertil kept his stalk eye on the female Andalite as they walked away. They had almost turned a corner when she sprang at them and was by Mertil’s side -- in fact, uncomfortably close -- in seconds. Mertil took a step back and leaned his upper body away. 

She peered at him with intense, sea-colored eyes. ‹You’re Mertil-Iscar-Elmand!›

Marco’s brows lifted up over his sunglasses, before he pulled them back up to rest on top of his head. Mertil watched Marco’s eyes scan the female Andalite from head to tail a few times. He was _truly_ shameless. Mertil still couldn't fathom how Marco seemed to have an eye for attractive Andalites. All humans still looked odd to Mertil. 

‹I am,› Mertil answered cautiously. She took in an excited gasp of breath. Mertil tilted his head to the side and squinted at her. ‹And you are?›

‹Oh! I am Illiana-Corain-Esgarrouth!› Her thought-speak was rushed, like she was thinking ahead of herself too far to remember her own name.

“It _is_ the Smith of Andalite names, isn’t it?” Marco said under his breath.

Illiana looked down at Marco and practically jumped back. ‹Shooting stars, that’s Marco.›

Marco’s face split in a grin that showed almost all of his teeth, which was an expression that bothered Mertil but seemed to overjoy Illiana.

‹Mertil, I came to Earth because of your writing! You’re -- you’re such an inspiration! I can’t believe I’m getting to meet you. Your work is incredible,› she effused.

‹Oh.› Mertil felt like blood was pooling in his hooves. This was not what he expected. Marco was at his elbow, so excited he was bouncing on his toes. ‹That’s very flattering. Thank you.›

‹You’re so dedicated to truth and balance and accountability. It’s so refreshing. And your poetry!› Illiana couldn’t keep all four hooves on the ground.

“Your poetry, Mertil? How sweet,” Marco remarked.

‹It’s almost all about combat flying,› Illiana explained seriously. ‹They’re very bittersweet. They read like love poems, if you were in love with destruction but knew you were also destroying yourself.›

“That sounds almost interesting,” Marco said quietly.

‹Thank you for explaining a major theme of my first collection. My poor friend Marco can’t read. It’s sad he will never know,› Mertil lamented, knowing Illiana was unlikely to grasp his acerbic tone.

“I _can_ read,” Marco interjected. “But not if it’s in, like, _Galard_ or whatever.”

‹I won’t bother you any further, but thank you so much for speaking with me. You’re doing so much good, I hope you know,› she said sincerely, peering at Mertil with all four eyes. She then looked down at Marco. ‹And you, also, it’s so exciting to meet you! Thank you for your sacrifice. And Earth! It’s beautiful. Have you had tiramisu? Unbelievable!›

“Yep, tiramisu, that’s a classic Earth attraction.” Mertil didn’t even know if Marco was being facetious. Mertil was unsure what tiramisu was. “Have you taken part in the human ritual called a handshake?” Marco asked.

‹No?› Illiana suddenly showed healthy skepticism for Marco. Perhaps she was familiar with his work, as well. ‹What does it entail?›

“Mertil, will you demonstrate with me?” Marco held his right hand out.

‹If you insist,› Mertil said flatly. He took Marco’s hand, intentionally keeping his grip noncommittal. Marco had a well-practiced, confident handshake.

‹That’s it?› Illiana asked.

“That’s it. Want to?” Marco held his hand out.

‹Yes!› She held her left hand out for Marco. He rolled with it and switched to his left. She shook his hand up and down enthusiastically, almost knocking Marco into Mertil, who sidestepped the unsurprisingly unbalanced human. ‹Thank you!› She bowed her head to Mertil respectfully. ‹And thank you.›

Her well-built companion with the intriguing coat pattern was waiting for her closeby, standing at a respectful distance. He was looking at a handheld holo projector but was watching them with a stalk eye. Mertil didn’t sense any hostility from him either. Illiana bounced over to rejoin her friend and held up her left hand exuberantly before exchanging an equally violent handshake with him.

Marco and Mertil continued walking away from the two Andalite civilians. Marco was glowing with the excitement of someone who fed off his own fame. Mertil was flicking his tail in inexplicable disquiet.

“That was cool. Here I was, worried about people recognizing me. I didn’t know you were famous, too.”

‹I’m sure ‘famous’ is a strong word. But I’m obviously not difficult to recognize. Other _vecols_ will not be able to travel off-world, after all. Forlay does say my work has broader appeal than most of what she publishes, but I didn’t expect what just happened,› Mertil admitted.

“I guess not all Andalites are complete and utter bastards,” Marco said.

‹Maybe not all,› Mertil agreed.

“I’m still mad at you for encouraging Ax to leave me,” Marco said.

‹No, you aren’t. You understand he’s doing what he has to. You should also do what you have to, if you want to preserve your relationship,› Mertil advised.

“You’re so annoying,” Marco remarked.

‹The feeling is mutual, my friend,› Mertil assured, with a smile at Marco, who weakly returned the gesture.

Marco mercifully stopped pointing out banal former landmarks on the way to the edge of town, back toward Mertil’s territory.

‹You said you wanted to ask me about the bond. I will tell you, if you like,› Mertil offered. 

“Does it even matter? Ax is gonna be off-planet, it won’t be an issue anymore.” Marco stuffed his fists into his pockets.

‹Let me tell you, and you can decide if it matters.› Marco sighed and nodded. ‹Right now, it seems you are what we call ‘combat-bonded’ -- it sometimes happens when warriors entangle themselves as you have. It’s uncommon, because it does also require a strong emotional bond, and often such relationships are formed out of convenience. But a combat-bond is to a complete bonding as an emergency shelter is to a well-constructed house. A bond such as Gafinilan and I had is very rare, because we were also lifelong _shorms_.›

“So our bond is shitty? Makes perfect sense,” Marco scoffed darkly.

‹It isn’t, it’s just …expediently constructed. If you continue your relationship, it will become more stable over time and more useful instead of intrusive.› Mertil continued, ‹I started becoming aware of my bond with Gafinilan around the equivalent Earth age of ten years. At the peak of our adolescence, it was incredibly disruptive. By approximately seventeen of your years, we were reliably able to communicate with little effort.›

“And when we met Gaf, he said he could feel your presence anywhere on the planet. However many of ‘our years’ that’s equivalent to. How old _are_ you, Mertil?”

Mertil ignored the intrusive question. ‹So you see, it can be useful, and the empathic qualities become more natural. Your bond could develop in that vein, although it may never be as strong as mine was.›

“A weird thing to brag about,” Marco pointed out.

‹But,› Mertil continued, ‹combat-bonds are more tenuous than standard bonds. A standard bond will take many years to fade after a separation, even over dozens of light years of distance. My bond was probably permanent.› Mertil let his point hang.

“So you’re saying that if Ax and I aren’t together or whatever, our empathy bond will dissolve?” Marco asked, his expression unreadable.

‹Yes. You can strengthen it by maintaining a strong relationship. But if you don’t, it will probably dissipate in less than one of your years.› Mertil added, ‹I thought you should know. I am not sure if that is good news or bad, considering you find it inconvenient and upsetting.›

“Yeah. I don’t know how I feel. I guess glad, if it’s over. But thanks.” Marco’s eyes were cold, like glass.

‹Is it over?› Mertil asked.

“Do you even listen to me?” Marco said.

‹Yes, and you rarely actually say what you mean.› 

“I don’t think I can handle it,” Marco muttered.

‹I don’t understand. If both of you want to preserve the relationship, and Aximili is willing to make an effort, why aren’t you?› Mertil tried not to sound accusatory, but he was slightly outraged. Learning that Aximili and Marco were bonded changed how he thought of their relationship, made it more personal for him. He couldn’t accept that Marco would just give it up without trying to save it.

“You Andalites are so smart, but you always think things will somehow just work out. Maybe sometimes things don’t work out, no matter how hard you try. Maybe sometimes you do everything you could and you still fail,” Marco said, bleakly.

‹But you have not yet exhausted your efforts,› Mertil said, studying Marco’s face with all four eyes. ‹Are you talking about something else?›

“The geniuses of the galaxy strike again,” Marco sneered. 

‹We are both too intelligent to keep talking in circles,› Mertil said. ‹If you want to talk to me, do it. If not, do not keep stepping around it.›

“My dad moved out,” Marco blurted. “He didn’t even tell me. Just one day, ‘where’s Dad?’ and my mom sits me down like it’s his funeral, and I’m basically having a panic attack because I think something happened. And she’s like, ‘we decided it was best if we have some time apart.’” Marco started laughing like he’d told a joke, but like so many of Marco’s laughs, it rang hollow.

‹Your parents?› Mertil asked. ‹Your parents are separating?›

“Yeah. Stupid, right? That I can deal with death and torture and war and actually being dismembered more times than I can even remember, and I’m messed up because my parents don’t want to be together? So funny.” Marco’s voice was brittle, like each word was creating a small crack inside him. “And the funniest part? My dad was actually scared to tell me. Really scared.”

They were silent for some time. Mertil didn’t have experience in this -- Andalite family units rarely split, even if the relationships were irretrievably broken. He hadn’t seen his own parents in the same space except at military functions since he was a small child. Such problems were politely ignored. After all, most mates already lived very separate lives. 

Among peers, parents weren’t discussed in depth; there was no reason to disrespect a friend’s filial privacy and no reason to dishonor oneself by complaining about situations beyond one’s control. Mertil had ignored this social rule most of his life and had complained to Gafinilan about his parents endlessly. Gafinilan tolerated his impropriety, like always. Mertil looked back down at Marco, feeling like being forced to deal with Marco’s parental problems was recompense for his own youthful indiscretions.

‹I am sure it’s still painful, even after enduring extraordinarily painful circumstances. The fact you survived a war doesn’t mean you can’t still be harmed by mundane experiences,› Mertil said.

“Thanks,” Marco muttered. “It could be more mundane, since I did a lot of …questionable things to get us to this point.” He paused and absently studied the board of information about hiking trails as they entered the state park. “My mom said she was already talking to lawyers before she was infested. Before the former Visser One forced them to stay together. I… I don't want to feel like I'm like her.”

‹You are not,› Mertil said quickly. 

“Sometimes I wonder,” Marco murmured.

That sentiment was above what Mertil felt qualified to address, so he brought them back to the previous subject. ‹So, you are upset about your parents’ separation, and those feelings affect how you feel about your own relationship?›

“I just feel like, what’s the point? Why keep it on life support, if it’s gonna die anyway?” 

Mertil didn’t like the metaphor, but he let it slide.

‹Many things happened that pulled your parents further apart. Many things happened that brought you and Aximili closer together. It seems you are the only two of your team who are still on the same page.› 

“Yeah, I guess. It’s just hard to deal with this stuff right now.” Marco pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

‹It seems like you have already lost a lot since the end of the war. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t be willing to lose anything I didn’t have to,› Mertil said seriously.

Marco sighed heavily and fell silent for the rest of the walk. He bid Mertil a somber farewell as Mertil’s scoop became visible over the horizon. This visit with Marco had done nothing positive for Mertil’s concern for him and Aximili. He intended to comm Aximili later to make sure he understood that Mertil disapproved of their using him to let Marco experience unique Andalite sensations through their secret empathic bond. Maybe he could put pressure on Aximili to talk to Marco more about the situation.

Mertil shuddered. What had he become, an interspecies teenage matchmaker? 

Mertil made a mental note to tackle a writing project he’d been putting off after he spoke to Aximili, to balance things out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco and Mertil take a road trip to see Aximili's new ship. Mertil meets Aximili's very interesting First Officer.

If anything could be said for Aximili, it’s that his word was reliable. The computer and communications array he provided were so cutting edge, it took time for Mertil to adjust to the new processing speed. At first, he had some trouble with issuing accidental commands because the computer seemed to register his thoughts before they were complete. He couldn’t help but feel like other Andalites were judging him for being peculiarly indecisive, even through technology upgrades.

The improved interface almost tripled his productivity. It got to the point that Forlay told him she had enough from him to publish for the whole season, and he should focus on personal work unless big news broke. He wasn’t feeling particularly inspired though, so he was spending a lot of time moderating discussion and debating in the Peace Front stream. Forlay, who absolutely embodied her aloof, detached public image, teased him for making himself so accessible.

Mertil reviewed the last one-way comm he’d received from Aximili and the interface he used to communicate via text message with Marco. Mertil still took a lot of pleasure in sending thought communications through Marco’s primitive mobile device. It was even more amusing because Mertil had the comm link for Marco’s own Andalite array that he used to communicate with Aximili but told Marco he prefered to text him because he responded more reliably.

Mertil had recently questioned Marco extensively on the plot of his television show, with scathing critiques of the pacing and inconsistent characterization. Marco had responded, “STOP BLOWING ME UP, I’M IN AN INTERVIEW. THAT WAS 43 TEXTS.”

Mertil smiled at the response to his most recent loquacious message, which had just been, “STOOOOOPPPPPPP” before focusing on their last exchange, which was a tentative itinerary for the day. He was feeling a bit anxious, so he sent another confirmation. 

_I am meeting you in the parking lot of Taco Bell?_

A couple minutes passed before he received Marco’s response.

_yeah the one near my old high school_

Mertil sighed, wondering if Marco thought it was funny to give directions based on places that hadn’t existed for almost two years but didn’t press it because he knew where he was going. 

_Why are we meeting there, in particular?_

_because i’m hungry and i’ve attended four banquets this week and i want garbage_

_Aren’t there three actual Mexican restaurants on the same block?_

_i said i want garbage  
i’ll be there in 20 mins_

Mertil realized he wasn’t going to arrive on time unless he left soon, so he quickly reviewed his alerts and sent a message to Forlay to expect a piece from him that night. After all, he would have something to report on.

He departed, enjoying the brisk ten kilometer run from his territory to the city. Mertil was grateful to get some exercise because he didn’t know what to expect as far as the level of discomfort involved in Marco’s travel plan. Mertil slowed as he entered town. Humans had a tendency to be alarmed by Andalites running down the sidewalk, even at a relatively slow speed. Mertil wondered how they ever managed to get from place to place with such sluggish walking paces, but he’d learned his lesson after bowling over several bystanders. 

Mertil was still, like any Andalite, unsettled by even the idea of a city and could be easily overwhelmed by large numbers of humans at certain points of the day. Even so, he’d set a personal goal to familiarize himself with Santa Barbara and the local culture and was proud of his progress. He’d started exploring as research when Marco asked him to ghostwrite his ridiculous book and had been surprised how much he liked it, once he got used to being stared at by humans and Andalites alike. 

No one thanked Mertil more for writing Marco’s book than Aximili. The book needed to be sanitized for Andalite audiences, in case Marco or a human writer missed some incriminating nuance that would cause political trouble for Aximili. Or in case Marco had completely missed that Aximili had been making noncommittal advances toward him for at least a year before they actually got together. That was absolutely the case, and any Andalite would have latched onto what Marco still thought were innocent details about their relationship. Aximili had taken advantage of his friends’ ignorance of Andalite customs, but what had probably started off as an amusing diversion had certainly backfired spectacularly. 

Besides learning the point at which Aximili had well and truly _torfed_ himself, writing Marco’s book had been an exercise in how much Mertil could loathe something and still give it to an editor. Anonymously. Even if the work was only stimulating insofar as it challenged Mertil’s own sensibilities of quality and integrity, it had been an opportunity to get Marco to pencil him into his busy schedule, which happened only rarely since. It had also resulted in a paycheck for Mertil, which he thought was hilarious, but definitely helped his ability to actually partake in Earth society. 

Santa Barbara had indeed become a significant Andalite tourist destination. At any time, there was one Andalite for every four humans on the street, usually still easily spotted in human morph. He’d watched, with satisfaction, the type of Andalites he saw shift from civilians and officials of high status to people who were clearly just normal citizens enjoying quite an extravagant vacation. 

Of course, _people like him_ still weren’t able to travel, but Forlay had been feeling him out about the possibility of establishing a _vecol_ settlement on Earth. They had frequent debates about it, with both of them on both sides each time. It was difficult to know how to move forward, since neither of them could decide if it was a good or bad idea. They both found the prospect of a permanent Andalite settlement on Earth distasteful. They both knew that many _vecols_ still wanted the opportunity to have the lives their culture had stolen from them. Mertil still chafed that he had no choice but to be a face for this issue, and his annoyance made him feel guilty.

He was recognized with increasing regularity, to the point that he had to keep finding new places to frequent. It seemed like “Mertil-spotting” was becoming a tourist attraction on its own among the civilian visitors, since Santa Barbara was a must-see for any Andalite tourist, and it was public knowledge that he was Earth’s only permanent Andalite resident. Since it was usually innocent, Mertil thought the pastime was incredibly bizarre, but kind of funny -- until he got banned by all the branches of the public library. He had argued for almost an hour that technically, Andalites don’t make any noise, even when a gaggle of ten of them were peering at him through a magazine rack. The librarian was not impressed by his elocution.

Mertil was familiar with this Taco Bell because it was a few blocks away from one of the libraries he wasn’t allowed inside anymore. He arrived with some time to spare, but Marco had still beaten him there and was leaning against some kind of odd vehicle. His hair was up and he was wearing sunglasses again. At least today, that look could be excused as utilitarian.

Marco turned his face sideways to shove his unnecessarily messy food in. Chunks of soggy tomato and thick cream fell to the ground when he shifted the wrapper to the same hand as the taco, so he could wave with his newly freed hand. Mertil returned the gesture but stared judgmentally at the morsels that had fallen onto Marco’s shirt instead of making eye contact. Marco, horrifically, opened his mouth wide and shoved the remaining half of the taco inside. He had to break it to get it all to fit and still had to poke it in with his fingers to allow his mouth to shut. Marco smiled at Mertil with his cheeks full like a squirrel. There was an initial revolting crunch, then continued grotesque, moist sounds of teeth grinding various textures of food.

Mertil flared his nostrils in disgust throughout this whole display, regretting that his accident hadn’t also blinded him. Still chewing, Marco crumpled up the wrapper and brushed the front of his shirt off. He pushed himself away from the side of the vehicle to toss the ball of paper into the garbage bin next to the restaurant and Mertil took a second to observe the van Marco had been leaning on. 

The most obvious feature was it looked like the whole top half had been sliced off. It was basically the bottom half of a van. The second detail of note was that there were no seats except the driver’s seat. The third point of interest was the logo on the side of the van -- a blue silhouette of a planet with rings and four moons (that looked nothing like the silhouette of the Andalite homeworld) and had “SpaceShuttles - _by Enterprise_ ” emblazoned inside the body of the planet. Creative company name.

“Checking out our wheels?” Marco asked, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

‹It’s a bit tacky, isn’t it?› Mertil asked skeptically.

“How else do you want to get to L.A., Mertil? I can’t believe you’re criticising this beautiful craft, retrofitted just for you by the enterprising folks at Enterprise Rent-A-Car,” Marco said.

‹You didn’t steal it from an airport, did you?› 

“Mertil! How could you think that?” Marco said, putting his hand on his chest in mock offense. “My life of commandeering vehicles is long behind me.”

Mertil looked the van up and down, circling around to the back of it. ‹Don’t you own something like seven of your own cars?›

“It’s really cute how you watch all my TV spots and act like you find it all distasteful. And what, like I want your hoof imprints in my Jag?” Mertil glared at him. Marco waved a hand. “I don’t see how you think you’d fit comfortably, even in my sweet BMW X5, so you’re going to have to deal with this gauche experience. _Sorry._ ” Mertil sighed. Marco rolled his eyes and added, “You know, the other option is a horse trailer.”

‹This is fine,› Mertil said quickly.

“Uh huh, thought so.” Marco opened the door and pulled himself up into the driver’s seat, muttering, “You try to be thoughtful. I don’t know why I even bother. Shoulda just pulled him behind me on four skateboards.”

Mertil opened the sliding passenger side door, carefully stepping up into the van. He was very tall next to Marco, even more than usual. Mertil could rest his elbows on top of the windshield if he wanted to.

“The liability statement I signed said you have to put your body on the floor. You should have seen it, it was like a phone book. Sorry, safety first.” Marco smiled sympathetically but also possibly sarcastically. Mertil thought most of Marco’s expressions looked insincere, but that was just because he knew him.

‹Ugh,› Mertil groaned, folding his legs under him and lowering himself to the floor of the van. At least he was closer to Marco’s height at this level. ‹Why did Aximili have to dock in the spaceport?›

“Military’s gotta check out his cool new ride,” Marco explained with a shrug. Mertil watched as Marco deliberately adjusted all his mirrors, tightened his seatbelt, and checked out the levers around his wheel. Marco started the engine, but before he pulled out, he cast a glance at Mertil. “Dude. I’m being careful, calm down.”

‹Huh? Oh.› Mertil hadn’t realized he was gripping the side of the door and that the fur along his spine was standing up. ‹Sorry. I’m not a great passenger.›

Marco smirked and turned onto the road. “I thought maybe someone warned you about my track record.”

‹No.› Mertil’s muscles wound up tighter. 

“Don’t worry -- it took me eight tries to pass my driving test. I’ve got tons of practice. I took lessons from the best stunt driver in Hollywood,” Marco reassured in an absolutely not reassuring fashion. “So, this is news? You’re going in an official capacity, right?”

‹Right,› Mertil confirmed, wishing he did not have 360 degree vision for this excursion, but he was also too anxious to not look all around. At least the traffic was flowing, and Marco really had done his best to make him comfortable in this horrible human death trap.

“Is getting a new ship a promotion?” Marco asked.

‹It isn’t an official promotion, but it does signify that his commanders recognize both his importance as a public relations figure and the significance of the work he’s doing. His crew is increasing from twenty to eighty. He’ll also have four fighters on board.›

Marco glanced over. At Mertil’s dirty look, he rolled his eyes and faced forward. “Does that mean they expect him to get into trouble or something?”

‹He will be able to transport more cargo himself and escort supply ships without accompaniment. His mission hasn’t changed,› Mertil shifted, then added, ‹At least, not on the books.›

“Uh huh,” Marco said in a low voice, “So are you writing a puff piece or an exposé?”

‹I am not sure yet,› Mertil admitted. ‹Aximili has proven to be a surprisingly competent diplomat --› 

“Heh, surprisingly, yeah.”

Mertil smiled. ‹He is a hero on homeworld, so any objections high command has had with his reform attitudes or the way he’s handled his assignment have been fairly impotent. He is popular, the people believe he is sincere, and the work he has done has improved our galactic reputation.›

“So you think they want to use him?” Marco, as always, had no trouble following a thread to its terminus. He hadn’t gone soft in his two years of playing the fool.

‹Yes,› Mertil said. ‹Andalites in general are not viewed positively by the rest of the galactic races. We loosed the Yeerks upon them, then were all too willing to sacrifice whole planets to keep our position strong, all while grandstanding as their saviors. Aximili is an alien advocate, in addition to having having been instrumental in ending the war. I think high command is preparing to bring him to the forefront of our negotiations with other races, besides the humans.›

Marco frowned, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. 

‹This is all speculation,› Mertil remarked.

“I know, but political speculation is like telling time for you,” Marco muttered.

‹Possibly,› Mertil said, taking a grim pleasure in Marco’s confidence in him. ‹But that doesn’t mean his objectives will change immediately. High command may want him to have more experience on Earth first.›

“A for effort,” Marco said hollowly.

‹How are you two doing?› Mertil asked.

Marco grinned, despite himself. “Remember back when you were so prim and said Ax didn’t seem the type to ‘consort with aliens’? I’ve ruined you for proper Andalite society.”

‹I think being your friend for three years is enough to ruin anyone,› Mertil deadpanned. Mertil could cast aside most differences of opinion he had with Marco because at the end of the day, he cherished their shared appreciation of sarcasm. Insulting your friends for fun was something few Andalites could even comprehend.

Marco snorted. “You know, you’re probably right, I don’t know anyone who’s been my friend that long who isn’t pretty much ruined. I mean, there’s definitely an overlap with the war, but I think you’re onto something.” Self-deprecation was also not common among Andalites, but was favored by them both.

‹Well, good thing I was ruined for proper Andalite society before you met me,› Mertil said. ‹Is it that bad that you’re avoiding talking about it?›

Marco looked over his shoulder to change lanes. Mertil tightened his grip on the side of the van. 

“No,” Marco said, shrugging. “It’s okay. It’s good when he’s here, sucks when he’s gone. I guess it’s what I expected. He’s diligent about calling me and still watches all my TV spots, which is sweet. He puts in more effort than me.”

Marco didn’t volunteer more, so Mertil didn’t probe. After a while, Marco merged onto a freeway and the congested landscape opened up. The ocean dropped off directly to the right, and the mountain range rose up directly to the left. Mertil was momentarily transfixed by the road splitting the two main features of his adopted home. Even Earth’s least charming aspects, like land travel, could somehow still be beautiful.

They passed a sign that said Los Angeles -- 81. Less beautiful.

‹How much longer?› Mertil asked.

“We _just_ left Montecito, please don’t do this to me the whole way,” Marco groaned. “It’s like an hour and forty minutes, unless we get held up in traffic, which, we will.”

Marco drove for a while and even though the ocean was nice and the mountain range was striking, it got monotonous after a while. Marco and Mertil both hated silence, so it was good that they also both could talk about work all day. Marco was on the last leg of his book tour and had been hitting talk shows on both coasts in between. His TV show was doing well -- “ _despite_ what _you_ think about the writing,” Marco added. 

Mertil was more interested in the serious side of Marco’s career, but it turned out Mertil was more on top of that than Marco. He’d reported on the Hork-Bajir and Taxxon colonies throughout the process. As it wrapped up, he held official interviews with all three available Animorphs, Representative Toby Hamee, and the Director of Yellowstone National Park. He tried to get Arbron to speak to him, but Arbron declined. Cassie insisted it wasn’t the case, but Mertil thought it was ironic that the _nothlit_ leader of the Taxxon rebellion wouldn’t speak to a _vecol._ The settlement process had all wound down, and all Marco could say further was, “Guess Cassie’s taking care of it.”

Marco, in turn, asked Mertil about his writing but was more interested in how it was being received than what he was actually writing. Marco asked about the distribution of _The Gorilla Speaks_ on the Andalite homeworld, and Mertil had to admit it debuted at number one and had held strong for months, which made Marco cackle. Mertil told Marco about his own access statistics, which led to him going into the library incident. Marco, for some reason, loved that Mertil wasn’t allowed to go to the library anymore and teased Mertil about his status as a prominent media personality. 

“I mean, you’re basically the Andalite version of me, aren’t you?” Marco said, smirking.

Mertil flared his nose slits. ‹Don’t insult me -- I actually have _work_ to do. And I only write things that are true. Except your book.›

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. The truth is whatever you say it is.” Marco ignored Mertil’s sound of disgust. “Point is, you’re the PR guy for Earth, and you’re making Ax’s mom’s agenda palatable for mainstream audiences. And they’re eating it up.”

‹You have such a talent for making everything seem unseemly,› Mertil criticised fondly. They were quiet for a few minutes, but Mertil was stewing on what Marco said. ‹You know, I am not trying to promote myself as a product. It’s the last thing I want.›

“Mm, is it?” Marco asked, looking up into the rearview mirror before signalling and maneuvering into a long line of traffic. Mertil was already uncomfortable with the hundreds of cars that surrounded them and the noise that entailed. He felt very conspicuous in the open van. He looked back toward the ocean as the road they were on moved inland.

Marco continued, “Because fighter pilot, former hero, tragic downfall, activist poet? _And_ handsome? It’s a good product. Better than what I’m selling, and that takes a lot for me to say.”

‹Why are we friends?› Mertil sighed.

“I’m just saying,” Marco said, “sure does work out for your boss that you’re so marketable.”

Mertil thought about his stance on the military and how it was much softer, indeed, more palatable than Forlay’s. He thought about the way he had sold Earth as a tourist destination and posed that travel could be an act of civic duty and, potentially, resistance. He thought about the way he’d portrayed Prince Aximili and his diplomatic assignment. He thought about being made a reluctant face for _vecols_ who refused to remain silent.

‹Yes,› Mertil agreed, resigned. ‹There are many reasons she would commodify me, you’re right.›

Marco looked up at some overhead signs and switched lanes. “Ax’s mom is kinda scary, huh?”

‹She would do anything for her cause,› Mertil murmured. ‹Even acknowledging she is probably using me, I admire her greatly. Most would not have seen me as an opportunity.›

“Ax joked about introducing me to her when we first got together,” Marco commented, using the voice he used when he was trying to sound casual but wasn’t.

Mertil studied Marco with a stalk eye. ‹That would be the equivalent of becoming engaged, you know.›

“God,” Marco muttered. “He was such an idiot.”

‹How do you mean?› Mertil asked.

“Andalites,” Marco said, as if that was enough of an explanation. Mertil waited patiently. “You guys keep your relationships secret. Like, everyone is in the closet. Even when it’s obvious. Even married people.”

‹Yes, but we know when two people are mates. A couple doesn’t have to be affectionate in public for it to be obvious they’re together,› Mertil said.

“Yeah,” Marco replied, pointed. “Exactly.”

‹I… I see.› 

Marco was right; conducting oneself in Andalite society required subtlety that Marco would never be able to learn. There was only so far the excuse that he was an alien could go, when the way they stood next to each other and the way Marco looked at Aximili would tell any Andalite everything. The polite overlooking that happened when mates were a little too conspicuous would not apply to an interspecies affair.

“There’s no way I can be a real part of Ax’s life. He’s a prince. What do you think people knowing about his alien extracurriculars would do to his blossoming career?” Marco said bitterly, “I’m his Earth fling now.”

‹I’m sure he doesn’t want you to feel that way.›

“I’m sure,” Marco echoed. “He’s never made me feel that way. He’d probably still introduce me to his mom. He taught me the ritual, just in case.”

‹That’s… very endearing.› Mertil felt a wave of bittersweet affection for Aximili, who had always prioritized doing what was right, above all. He was very like his mother, after all. 

“Yep,” Marco agreed, his voice flat. “That’s why I still know he’s excited to see me, right now. We’re almost there.” 

Mertil was relieved that his friends still shared their bond, despite that Marco had struggled not to give up for almost a year. Mertil didn’t know if there really was a solution to Marco’s valid concerns. Maybe Marco was right, that they were just futilely keeping their heads above water -- that hope, in this case, was irrational. And yet, there sat Marco, sensing Aximili from kilometers away. Hope was still alive in him somewhere.

Marco chewed his lip, focused on driving. The roads had gotten much wider, the cars were bumper to bumper, and Mertil was trembling slightly. They had slowed to a crawl.

“Welcome to L.A.” Marco said dramatically, with a sweep of his hand.

‹I still only see traffic,› Mertil pointed out.

“ _Welcome_ ,” Marco repeated, leaning back in his seat and inching the van forward.

Mertil was too nervous to make conversation and didn’t want to distract Marco from driving. Scattered buildings finally began to appear, indicating there was some substance to Los Angeles besides roads. Mertil had started to wonder. In this area at least, besides the accursed traffic, Los Angeles was less dense than Santa Barbara. Mertil grasped at this fact, in an attempt to reassure himself. The traffic loosened a bit after they passed an exit for the airport, and Marco took a couple more turns before they pulled up under a large structure with an attached pedway and AEROSPACE in bold letters along the top of the building.

“This is it,” Marco indicated and Mertil let loose the breath he’d been holding. “L.A. Air Force Base, home of the new L.A. spaceport.”

Marco drove a bit further, into a more open paved area, and Mertil went straight back to holding his breath. A huge Andalite supply ship had come into view. Alongside it was a smaller, but still substantial, cruiser-class ship -- Aximili's _Intrepid_. Mertil obviously hadn't seen the new designs in person, even though he'd reviewed the specs and holo models. The lines of Andalite ships always looked more elegant in person. It was a statement, that Aximili had been assigned to one of the newest ships in the fleet. A mix of about fifty Andalites and humans were milling about the ships, but Mertil blocked them out, all but one stalk eye traveling back and forth along the long, sweeping curves of the _Intrepid_.

Marco parked at the end of another line of cars, took his sunglasses off, and leaned up to look at himself in the rearview mirror. The second the van was parked, Mertil was out, still entranced by the ship, even as his body automatically went through the paces of stretching, shaking out, flicking his tail. Mertil made his way over to the _Intrepid_ , hardly noticing the milling crowd of humans and Andalites parting to allow him to pass. He had circled half the perimeter of the ship, feeling like it was too beautiful to take in all at once, before he realized Aximili was watching him.

Slightly embarrassed, Mertil pulled his main eyes away from the _Intrepid_ and made his way to Aximili, who was standing under the docking bay, flanked by another Andalite. They were both staring at Mertil -- Aximili smiling slightly and his companion studying Mertil with sharp eyes. He was younger than Mertil but obviously older than Aximili. He had a lithe build, slightly delicate features, and heavily-patterned fur the color of a stormy sea. He shifted his hooves like he was being made late for an appointment but held his tail higher than Mertil would expect from a warrior of low status. Aximili must not run a very disciplined ship, if he allowed his officers to appear so visibly restless.

‹Do you like my ship, Mertil?› Aximili asked, bubbling with amusement and pride, his demeanor decidedly uncaptainly. Mertil found himself thinking, not for the first time, how preposterous serving under Prince Aximili would be. From the look of his shifty officer, Mertil wasn’t alone in that feeling.

‹Of course, Prince,› Mertil asked, abashed that his thought-speech wavered slightly with emotion. ‹The new cruiser-class design is very striking in person. Thank you for inviting me.›

‹This is my First Officer, Commander Menderash-Postill-Fastill,› Aximili indicated his companion. ‹Please excuse him.›

Menderash’s shoulders tensed and he prickled a bit. ‹I haven’t done anything yet, Prince.›

‹Yes, but when will you learn to trust my instincts?› Aximili was _joking_ with his officers. What chaos he must be causing in the fleet. 

‹That will never happen, Prince,› Menderash answered smoothly, and Mertil wasn’t sure if he was reciprocating Aximili’s teasing, or actually being straightforward, like most Andalites would have been. Either way, he was rude.

‹It is nice to meet you, Commander.› Mertil bowed his head slightly toward Menderash.

‹It is _very_ nice to meet you, as well,› Menderash affirmed, and Mertil pointed his ears toward him in surprise at the emphasis. ‹Half the crew thought Prince Aximili was overstating his association with you. You write about him very professionally, so the wider opinion was that you must not know him.›

‹Excuse him,› Aximili repeated, but he was clearly at ease with his brazen First Officer.

‹It is easy to maintain a good working relationship with Prince Aximili when you have as much blackmail material as I do,› Mertil commented genially, a facetious statement of absolute truth.

Right on time, Marco sidled up to the group and stood close enough to Aximili that they could have linked arms. “Look, I got Mertil here in one piece,” Marco said, waving his hands toward Mertil like he was presenting him. But he was looking up at Aximili and the change in him was striking. It was like the lights had all been out before. 

Aximili’s shift in body language was also obvious, and Mertil had to resist the urge to groan at them that they were actually in public. Mertil did a quick scan of the area, noting they were in eyeshot of at least a dozen Andalites -- who were all pretending not to stare at Mertil. Mertil sighed and raised his tail to the level he would have held it when he was a pilot. Using himself as a distraction was one way to shield his friends from controversy.

“Hey, Menderash,” Marco said casually. He got a nod of acknowledgement from the F.O.

‹You know each other?› Mertil asked.

‹Menderash was my communications officer on the _Alucan_ ,› Aximili explained. ‹I have periodically shuttled Marco when we have had common assignments.›

‹I have spent more time with both of them than I care to,› Menderash said to Mertil. Again, Mertil couldn’t tell if he was rude, or rude _and_ teasing above his rank in a very un-Andalite manner.

‹Me too,› Mertil agreed, smiling, in case Menderash really did have a sense of humor. Menderash’s eyes narrowed in just the slightest trace of a returned smile.

Aximili looked between the two of them then turned to Marco. ‹Marco, I want lunch. Will you take me to the place with the pie?›

“What, now?” Marco said, surprised. “Don’t you have stuff to do?”

‹Yes, of course,› Aximili said. ‹We will be docked here for at least a week. The ‘stuff’ will get done. Let’s go out.›

“Okay, yeah, I guess we can get pie. Uh, what about Mertil?” Marco glanced at Mertil. “They don’t serve grass at The Pie Hole.”

‹Mertil, will you show my First Officer around? He hasn’t had fresh grass since the last time we docked,› Aximili requested.

‹Prince,› Mertil said tersely, ‹This is my first time in this city, and I haven’t seen grass since I got here.›

‹In that case, I would be happy to show _you_ around,› Menderash offered. ‹There is a small park to the east and a slightly larger golf course down the street. The golf course has better grass. _Humans_.›

They agreed to meet back at the _Intrepid_ in two Earth hours. Marco and Aximili left, but Menderash took care to make sure the other officers were at their stations and transferred his command to the tactical officer. Mertil followed him as he gave orders, keenly observing the crew dynamics and taking note of names to research later. It was odd for Mertil to be back among the crew of a ship, even as an outsider. It felt like the times he had gone back to the Academy after leaving, but the nostalgia was pierced with sharp, jagged needles. It was hard not to feel like this was the life he should still have.

Mertil’s encounters on Earth with military personnel hadn’t all gone as poorly as the encounter he had at Beans & Leaves with Marco, but Mertil was still in the habit of identifying and carefully avoiding military tourists. It seemed that at least the civilians who came to Earth, if they cared about Mertil at all, were mostly tolerant of his vecol status. Their reactions ranged from curious to conflicted, but they could generally be trusted. Mertil knew the military were the gatekeepers of Andalite tradition and had a lot invested in keeping _vecols_ in their place. Unlike civilians, the military tourists were often openly hostile, couldn’t be trusted, and Mertil wouldn’t allow himself into a situation where he was alone with one.

Non-civilians were unavoidable in this context, obviously, but Mertil was there to do his job and didn’t need Aximili to protect him. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel every stalk eye crawl down his spine and settle on his tail as Menderash handed out assignments. None of them said anything to him, or even so much as gave him an open look of disgust. They must have been briefed beforehand. Mertil appreciated Aximili’s consideration but resented being coddled at the same time.

Menderash signed off on a shipment manifest and made sure everything was running smoothly, then led the way toward the golf course. Menderash stopped in front of a low fence on the far side of the property and sprang over it with graceful fluidity. Mertil followed suit. Their hooves met plush, well-tended grass, and Menderash continued to lead toward a water feature that was flanked in short palm trees. 

Mertil followed, wondering absently if Menderash could outrun him. Menderash was slightly smaller, but his features were longer and sinewy muscles flowed smoothly beneath his fur. He was also tightly wound, like an Andalite who was always a hair’s breadth from running anyway. Mertil knew he was fast but wondered if Menderash might be faster.

‹Prince Aximili needs to work on his discretion,› Menderash noted as they walked.

Mertil studied Menderash’s impassive features for a read on him. ‹How do you mean?› Mertil said carefully.

Menderash cast a glance at Mertil and picked up speed. Mertil kept up, shoulder to shoulder with Menderash, a light buzz of excitement jolting through him. ‹It is an interesting assignment, working for him.› Menderash had responded to Mertil’s cagey response with his own, and suddenly Mertil felt like they were weaving around each other. 

Mertil picked up the pace himself, and Menderash continued at his side. ‹I am sure it is,› Mertil agreed. ‹What were you doing before?›

Menderash smiled at Mertil and then they were running, not at a straining speed, but it wasn’t a casual stroll anymore. ‹Are we on the record?›

That caught Mertil off guard. He said, uncleverly, ‹I thought we were just talking.›

‹I am sure.› Menderash wasn’t just rude, he was _sarcastic_. Intriguing. ‹My previous assignment was classified,› Menderash answered.

That piqued Mertil’s interest. His heart rates were already elevated due to the running instinct and now he was very motivated to penetrate whatever Menderash was trying to obfuscate. He could tell that Menderash wanted to make Mertil work for whatever he was willing to disclose.

‹I see,› Mertil said carefully. ‹When were you transferred under Prince Aximili’s command?›

‹I _requested_ transfer as soon as he was given command of the _Alucan_ ,› Menderash said. ‹It was actually my first post offworld after being promoted from aristh. I have never considered myself built for space.›

‹Oh,› Mertil said. ‹I am quite the opposite. I detest being grounded. It’s a daily misery that I must distract myself from.›

‹Yes, I know,› Menderash said in a tone that he was leaving more unspoken than not.

‹You know?›

‹Of course,› Menderash said, as if it was the most obvious fact. ‹You write about flying almost as much as you write about military reform. You somehow make both compelling, even though I only care about the latter.›

‹Thank you.› Mertil tried to take the compliment in stride. He had expected that some of Aximili’s crew were familiar with his political writing, but he didn’t expect they would have read his poetry. 

‹I have been following your work since you resurfaced,› Menderash continued, judging correctly that he had thrown Mertil off guard. ‹Well before Prince Aximili was elevated to his current rank. Off the record, your sudden appearance on the underground resistance scene was quite the shock to the intelligence division.›

Everything about Menderash came crashing into focus. Mertil slowed down so he could concentrate better. Why would Aximili’s First Officer tell Mertil he was a spy?

Mertil’s body language was too obvious -- his time away from society had done him no favors in that department. Menderash slowed to a stop and studied Mertil shrewdly. Mertil felt exposed. If fighter pilots were the celebrated heroes of the Andalite military, intelligence officers were their ignoble inverse. Andalite war culture valued fighting the fight and making the sacrifice. The intelligence division did the dishonorable work -- they did _most_ of the work.

‹I cannot guarantee what you are telling me is off the record, if you are saying what I think you are,› Mertil said, drawing himself up taller to resist the crawling feeling of being looked over. Even though Menderash was examining him, his eyes didn’t linger on Mertil’s tail like his crew’s had and didn’t pointedly avoid it either.

‹Then I had better explain myself before your imagination runs out of control and you report false speculation,› Menderash said in a blithe tone.

‹You insult my integrity,› Mertil muttered.

‹And you mine,› Menderash said lightly. ‹I requested a transfer because my previous position was intolerable. Actually, that is a lie. I was assigned to monitor the private communications of Forlay-Esgarrouth-Maheen. I was steeped in resistance writings and plans sometimes for days at a time with no break. It was fascinating.›

‹You must realize that I find that horrific,› Mertil commented, now shifting his hooves more than Menderash, who actually looked mostly at ease.

‹Of course. But you see, one does not become an intelligence officer without asking questions. I was intimately aware of the crimes and injustices dirtying all our hands. And anything she said that I didn’t already know, I could easily fact check, with my access codes.›

Mertil leaned forward toward Menderash, every part of him alert. ‹You’re saying you were a resistance sympathizer in the intelligence division?›

‹No comment,› Menderash said, his eyes flashing a rakish smile. ‹But perhaps I sometimes forgot to file a report when I should have. Perhaps some of my reports were incomplete or improperly sourced. I had only been elevated from _aristh_ one homeworld year prior; I can’t say it was my best work.›

Mertil had stopped breathing. Aximili’s First Officer had fallen just short of admitting to being a double agent.

Menderash continued, ‹Peace Front’s output is such that there was a team assigned to it. There were times the presence of my colleagues forced me to expose Forlay’s activities that I otherwise might not have noticed. You may know the military police target her for _unschweet_ approximately once per season, somewhat arbitrarily.›

‹Yes.› Mertil shivered. She had been recently shorn when he met her. It did nothing to curb her activities. It did nothing but make the military look like predators. She said it kind of worked for her image.

‹I was involved in a report that resulted in a short seclusion term for her, a full-body _unschweet_ , and I found out from private sources that she was tortured and almost mutilated. I was sickened.› Mertil could feel the persistent distress and regret in Menderash’s thought-speak. 

‹You should be,› Mertil said, his hackles raised. ‹She has every right to speak against the military without being locked in a box and butchered.›

‹I know,› Menderash said emphatically. ‹I considered leaving my position and becoming an independent communications contractor. What I did instead was use my access codes and encryption keys to join the Peace Front private channel. And I became active.›

Menderash was one of their military informants. Mertil’s legs went numb as all the blood rushed into his head. ‹Do I _know you_?› 

‹No comment,› Menderash repeated. Mertil thought about the military informants with whom he interacted regularly. He knew he could rule two of them out immediately; their thought patterns were totally different. Beyond that, he would need his system to help analyze the remaining possibilities. It was odd that it was entirely possible he had a pre-existing relationship with Menderash that could potentially be called “friendly.”

‹Does Aximili know about this?› Mertil dropped formalities; this was far beyond a polite chat. He was talking to a person who, if court-martialed, would be easily convicted of treason. Mertil realized that if he still had military status, that was probably true for him, too. But the punishment for treason was removal of one’s tail blade and that ship had sailed for Mertil. Mertil glanced at Menderash’s long, willowy tail and the fine curve of his tail blade. It would be an unfortunate loss. Menderash flicked his blade; he’d noticed Mertil looking. 

Menderash tilted his head, angling his neck toward Mertil, a gesture showing he was baring himself. ‹That would be highly incriminating for my superior officer. Of course I act alone.› 

It was a stupid question. No Andalite with a shred of honor would have confirmed that -- especially not to a journalist. Menderash may have been a military traitor and a double agent, but Mertil could tell he wasn’t fundamentally dishonorable. Aximili took great pains to keep his relationship with Mertil above board. He’d spent his whole life practicing that relationship with his mother. But it wasn’t inconceivable that Aximili would give tacit approval to a member of his staff to leak information to Mertil. Aximili was a radical force in the military.

‹So, you began interacting actively with the private stream before I did,› Mertil said, working out the timeline in his mind.

‹Yes, but only minimally until you arrived. I was intrigued by Forlay’s philosophy, but you intertwined her base with military principles and proposed reforms I knew could actually work.› Menderash was speaking quickly, and Mertil felt like he could see his own passion reflecting in Menderash. ‹The military, the resistance movement -- neither side wants to see the value in the other. Your work is a bridge.›

‹You’re flattering me,› Mertil said.

‹I am not,› Menderash insisted. ‹Your writing was immediately recognized as a real threat to the established order. Forlay is so extreme -- ironically, too militant to appeal to the people. Forgive me for this, but you are a casualty who can speak for himself. To the public, you are every son that was lost to the war. You give voice to their ghosts. It was priority one to silence you.›

Mertil tried not to focus on the disturbing things Menderash said. He didn’t want to be anyone’s dead son. ‹I thought my work was more or less freely distributed along the usual channels. I thought they didn’t take me seriously until it was too late.›

Menderash lifted a hoof in the front. Put it down. Lifted the opposite back hoof. ‹There was an attempt to destroy all data being distributed with your thought engrams. The program was written and pushed out along the Z-space access lines, to infect every user.›

Mertil was shocked. ‹The intelligence division wrote a universal virus to destroy my data presence? And prevent me from any further communication?› The prospect was horrific, to be truly and completely erased and isolated from his people. He felt a flare of resentment that the military had tried to force his duty as a _vecol_ upon him.

‹As I said, you were a threat. You would not have been the first time such an expungement happened.›

‹But it didn’t,› Mertil pointed out, obviously.

‹The program was defective,› Menderash said, his thought-speak silky and beguiling. ‹Possibly it was sabotage.›

‹Just to confirm,› Mertil said, ‹this is _very_ off the record.›

‹It is appreciated,› Menderash said, gracing Mertil with another quick, subtle smile. ‹Luckily for that possible saboteur, Prince Aximili’s challenge and promotion and the end of the war threw everything into complete chaos and the investigation was dropped. My transfer to his crew processed very quickly. Oddly, no one else was leaping to serve a child prince, even a famous one. Especially considering what he did to undermine the status quo.› 

Mertil stared at Menderash with all but one stalk eye, trying to absorb everything. He was self-conscious about his slightly rapid breathing.

‹I seem to have rendered you speechless,› Menderash observed. ‹I know that is a rare event, so perhaps I should congratulate myself?›

Mertil shook himself out. ‹So you maneuvered your way onto Aximili’s staff. What is your goal?›

‹To be his First Officer, of course,› Menderash said, like it was obvious. ‹He needs strong support among his crew. He needs someone who will enforce loyalty among the rest. I believe entirely in what he is doing. I do not trust he has the cunning to accomplish it on his own.›

‹I don’t either,› Mertil agreed. ‹I have been terrified for him since day one. He knows what is right, but he doesn’t have the subtlety or caution required to navigate his opponents.›

‹Luckily, he appreciates officers who question him. So here I am. And he is still intact. I believe the greatest part of his opposition is behind him,› Menderash said. ‹Thanks to you and the end of the war, what used to be the resistance movement is now mainstream public opinion, and Prince Aximili is too popular to censure. It’s a new era for the Andalite military. We aren’t ‘shredders armed, shields up,’ anymore. The old guard is calling it ‘tailless tactics.’›

Mertil winced and flicked his tail, making it clear he wasn’t ashamed or hiding. Menderash continued to not be disturbed. ‹That’s the sort of charming rhetoric I expect,› Mertil sneered.

‹It is distasteful,› Menderash agreed. ‹It may be obvious, but I have always valued a more flexible approach. Shredders and tail blades can only get you so far. You have to be willing to change. The new ways appeal to me.›

‹Of course they do. You are unorthodox, to say the least. I still believe you give me too much credit,› Mertil said. 

‹Humility doesn’t suit you,› Menderash said. ‹I have spent approximately ninety-six Earth minutes trying to convince you of your own importance. That will be tiring, if we should ever find ourselves in each other’s company again.›

Mertil blinked. ‹What does that mean?›

Menderash rolled his shoulders languidly in a gesture very reminiscent of a human shrug. Mertil briefly wondered if Aximili picked his officers based on whom was most willing to consume human media with him. 

‹Only that you are good friends with my prince, and I am his First Officer and may be reached via his secondary comm channel. If you should have need of me.› Menderash turned away and began walking to the fence where they entered, his stalk eyes still watching Mertil. ‹Like the unorthodox Andalites we are, we have lost track of time. We should get back.›

Mertil stared at Menderash’s retreating shape, passively noting the saunter of his hips and the lithe taper of his tail. Mertil felt, maybe for the first time in his life, like someone had run circles around him, rhetorically. It was embarrassing how dumbstruck Mertil had been throughout that conversation, even considering the topic. He hoped he’d had more impressive conversations with Menderash via Forlay’s data stream without knowing who he was. He would absolutely figure that out through engram analysis when he got back to his scoop. Then he would double check the extra levels of security they had protecting their military informants.

Mertil pawed the ground, then sprinted ahead of Menderash, quickly feeling the inborn rush as Menderash met his speed and fell in next to him. Mertil pressed them harder -- he couldn’t stand the thought that Menderash could beat him on two fronts. At least, he couldn’t stand not knowing if he could. Menderash had no problem keeping up, and soon Mertil was running at top speed, his gait stretching to its maximum, each stride more of a leap. He felt his blood rush, filling him with pulsing euphoria. 

He sailed over the fence and his hooves pounded the ground a moment before Menderash landed next to him. Pleased and self-satisfied, Mertil moved to continue back to the spaceport. Menderash caught him lightly by the wrist and halted him dead in his tracks. He was standing much too close for a new acquaintance and was definitely crossing the lines of decorum for two warriors. 

‹Say you’ll see me again,› Menderash pressed. It should have been a question, but it wasn’t. It shouldn’t have been said at all, but it was obvious that Menderash was too bold, quick to disregard what was considered acceptable. No matter how he approached this, though, it wouldn’t be acceptable, because it was Mertil he was approaching.

‹Yes,› was all Mertil could manage to say. Menderash released his wrist.

They walked back to the base, side by side. Mertil was locked in a spiral of repeating the last couple hours at hyperspeed in his mind, zeroing in on the subtext of their exchanges. There was no way to misconstrue what had just happened. Still, it was very hard to accept that someone might be attracted to him. He had never been in a position to be pursued, and after he lost his tail and Gafinilan -- he had never conceived of it as a possibility. He was reeling.

They crossed the long stretch of tarmac, and Mertil was drawn into contemplating the form of the _Intrepid_ again. This time, his eyes started at the sweep of the tail and followed it down and forward along the bulge of the bridge and the sharp curve of the nose. His eyes fell on Aximili and Marco, waiting for them under the cargo bay again. They were still too close -- too close for comrades in arms, almost too close for _shorms_. Their body language was too open and intimate. Marco moved too carelessly to interact with a prince, and Aximili leaned toward him too submissively.

Mertil and Menderash sighed at the same time, then looked at each other.

Privately, Menderash said, with some amusement, ‹Like I said, a problem of discretion.›

‹Indeed,› Mertil answered, feeling more sure of Menderash’s loyalties and unconventionalities. ‹You don’t seem bothered.›

‹Living amongst them made Prince Aximili more like them than us. I don’t know that he could be happy with a normal life,› Menderash commented. ‹There is much I have to do to help him still fit into Andalite society. Hiding this is just one more thing.›

‹He requires so much support,› Mertil said, sighing again.

‹Good thing he has a solid team,› Menderash said, touching the flat of his tail blade gently to Mertil’s shoulder. Mertil took in a sharp breath but tried not to draw attention to it. Menderash was going to cause his own problem of indiscretion. It was rare that Mertil could say he met an Andalite more reckless and inconstant than himself.

They closed the distance, and Aximili smiled at Menderash, clearly exchanging a few private words, before saying openly, ‹I hope you enjoyed your walk as much as we enjoyed our pie. You are late.›

‹I am very sorry, Prince,› Menderash said. ‹You know Los Angeles traffic.› 

Marco snickered.

‹Mertil,› Aximili said, ‹I apologize for my earlier rudeness. I have been meaning to give you a tour of the ship. Will you join me?›

‹Oh,› Mertil said. ‹Of course.›

‹Menderash,› Aximili ordered, ‹Monitor activities out here and don’t let Marco distract anyone but you.›

‹Oh _good_ ,› Menderash falsely enthused, looking balefully down at Marco, who grinned up at him. 

Aximili led Mertil up into the cargo bay and briefly ran down its capacity and storage features. From there, they toured the bridge, and Aximili pointed out each station -- the arrangement wasn’t much different from the last cruiser-class ship Mertil had served on, but there were definite upgrades in efficiency and aesthetic. Certainly the ship’s landscape engineer was better -- Mertil almost wished he hadn’t just eaten -- the quality of expertly cultivated Andalite grass under his hooves was almost overwhelming. 

Aximili took him to ops and showed him the upgraded engine pods, which Aximili was much more interested in than Mertil. Mertil accepted that _ships work_ and _ships were magnificent_ but the actual running of ships and reasons why they worked? He respected the work of the engineering staff but preferred not to be subjected to it. Flight was an organic part of him -- there was no need to bog it down with technicalities.

Aximili was alight with energy that he had the opportunity to show Mertil his new ship. In turn, Mertil was very proud of all Aximili had accomplished. Aximili was already a hero of the people and was on his way to becoming a fine, if unconventional prince. Mertil felt more assured of his safe and productive future knowing Menderash had the surreptitious character Aximili lacked, in addition to dangerous loyalty to him and the cause. 

The tour was winding down. Mertil was about to thank Aximili when Aximili said, ‹Would you like to see the fighters?›

A twist of longing wrenched both Mertil’s hearts. He wished he could say no. ‹Absolutely,› he said instead.

They entered the fighter bay. Five fighters rested inside, their sleek forms practically vibrating with potential energy. Mertil took a deep breath and stepped forward, running his hands along the side of the closest ship. These designs had been updated too -- more sweeping curves, rounder corners, a de-emphasized tail shredder. They were almost alive in their beauty and function, more like a pack of animals than machines. Mertil knew what lost love felt like.

‹You like them,› Aximili observed.

‹Yes, Aximili, you know I do.› He didn’t mean to let out a streak of bitterness, but it was there. Mertil pulled himself up to look at all of the fighters, while keeping his hands on the one in front of him. ‹Isn’t the standard complement of fighters to a cruiser-class four? Five isn’t a usual formation team.›

‹Yes, about that,› Aximili said, his thought-speak oddly suggestive. Mertil turned to look at him, one hand still on the hull of the fighter. ‹I have need for a permanent envoy on Earth. I don’t know any warriors who want to be stationed out here indefinitely, so I did some checking. You were never decommissioned.›

Mertil stopped breathing. ‹What do you mean?›

‹I mean,› Aximili said, ‹That, officially, you are still in active service. That makes me your prince. If you want that ship, I would be honored for you to have it. I would have an occasional need for you to travel on short diplomatic missions when I am off-world, but that is well within your scope of expertise -- having checked your personnel log, of course.›

‹Aximili -- _Prince_ Aximili --› Mertil looked up at the ship longingly and pressed his fingertips into the hull. He took some carefully measured breaths and steeled himself for the hardest thing he had ever said. ‹It is a conflict of interest. I am dedicated to my work with Forlay. I can’t.›

‹I don’t want you to stop your current work. I want to endorse it. Your opinions are not subversive. They are in line with my own mission, and that is a matter of record. Secondary occupations are being heavily reemphasized now that the military is being downsized. You don’t have to change anything you are currently doing. You are perfectly legitimate and sanctioned by your prince.›

‹You may think that, but there is no way you have clearance for this,› Mertil whispered, unable to believe it.

‹Don’t I?› Aximili said, amused at Mertil’s incredulity. ‹I will admit, this has taken months to execute, but it has wide support among my personal chain of command. I can show you the logs, if you like. I think you would be interested to know of the War-Prince who gave final approval.›

‹If it was Alloran, it delegitimizes it even further,› Mertil dismissed, still pushing it away, not allowing himself to feel.

‹It was not Alloran,› Aximili said. ‹It was War-Prince Solorin-Iscar-Halas.›

Mertil went perfectly still. ‹There is no way. My father would never support this.›

‹He was not the most cordial superior I have ever dealt with, but he is also not in my direct hierarchy -- he made a special request to be included. He did not oppose at any point. I have the logs, the authorization record, and the requisition request. Everything is approved. I even cleared it with my mother. I did not expect getting _you_ to say yes would be so difficult,› Aximili admitted.

‹I am not sure this day is actually happening,› Mertil said quietly. 

‹If that is the case, then there is nothing keeping you from accepting my offer and flying away. I wouldn’t want to have to go back to Santa Barbara as Marco’s passenger,› Aximili teased gently.

Mertil pressed his cheek against the side of the ship. ‹This is mine.›

‹Good,› Aximili said. ‹You have clearance to fly it at any time. I respect your discretion. But I _did_ read your file. Please try not to damage it. I have talented maintenance staff, but we are weeks from the fleet repair crews.›

Mertil laughed weakly. ‹I’ll keep that in mind. I’m cleared to fly? Right now?›

‹Yes,› Aximili confirmed.

‹Tell Marco and Commander Menderash I will speak with them later, and apologize for my untimely departure.›

‹Of course,› Aximili said, smiling.

Mertil engaged the ship’s computer and it hummed gently to life, immediately responsive. The entrance to the cockpit slid open seamlessly and closed behind him as he took the station. He felt like he had been jettisoned into the vacuum of space, so it was good that muscle memory took over to automatically check his systems, and even to issue thought commands to notify the bridge of his departure and open the bay door. 

‹Thank you, Prince Aximili,› Mertil said.

‹Thank you,› Aximili replied.

Mertil initiated the engine, pulled the ship in line with the hatch, then accelerated out like threading a needle. He swept low along the port for just a moment before pulling up into a sharp spiral. His fighter rapidly pierced through the clouds, streaking into the upper atmosphere. At this height, even moving several times the speed of sound, it felt like he was gently drifting. He looked up into the deepening blue above him and the blanket of white below. 

All around him, on all sides, there was only sky. Mertil was home. He was complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful betas and everyone who encouraged me while I was writing this fic. Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed! Please let me know how you feel in the comments and follow me on tumblr at acavatica.tumblr.com for art and updates.
> 
> Next week I have a one-shot, and then a new multi-chapter fic will start the week after. Thanks for coming on this ride with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much, my fantastic beta [fairkidforever](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fairkidforever/pseuds/fairkidforever). Your enthusiasm for my work and encouraging comments mean more than words. Please go check out their work, because it's a constant inspiration to me and their complexity pushes me to be better. Also thanks to everyone who leaves me kudos and comments. This waterfall of Animorphs feelings wouldn't be possible if you didn't tell me you liked it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Punches](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565088) by [poisonbite01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonbite01/pseuds/poisonbite01)




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